


Etch the pain

by Gambitgirl



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Adult Ciel - Freeform, Adult Ciel Phantomhive, BDSM, BDSM Scene, Bad Touch, Blood Play, Blood and Violence, Bloodplay, Bondage, Bottom Ciel, Bottom Ciel Phantomhive, Bottom Sebastian, Emotional Manipulation, Knife Play, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Consensual Spanking, Physical Abuse, Rimming, Spanking, Strangulation, Switch Ciel, Switch Sebastian, Top Ciel, Top Ciel Phantomhive, Top Sebastian, Underage touching, Wax Play, Whipping, and also glorious, breath play, ciel is seriously messed up, emotional torture, masochist Ciel, masochist Sebastian, pain play, sadist Ciel, sadist Sebastian, sebastian loves pain, seriously some of this could be distressing to sensitive readers, slave Sebastian, the sex doesn't happen until he is no longer a child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-01-05 12:50:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 51,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12190317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gambitgirl/pseuds/Gambitgirl
Summary: When the demon’s lips first touched his young lord’s flesh and black tipped fingers slid along that young cheek, cool and smooth as marble, the demon mourned how dull his existence would become in the next moment. Yes, he would be sated, he would thrive on this soul for centuries, perhaps a millennia or more.But...Ciel Phantomhive’s existence would become mere footnote in the history of the world.What a luminous little scribble he had been!





	1. His Master, Brutal

**Author's Note:**

> This work was completed in 2 days of nonstop writing, it will consists of less than 10 chapters with a new chapter posted every 3 days. It will get progressively darker and more explicit as we go, so fair warning. It will earn it's explicit rating around the midpoint, first for violence then for sex.

_Will it hurt?_

__

__

_It will, a bit. I will make is as gentle as I can, though._

__

__

_No, go ahead and be brutal. Etch the pain deep into my soul as proof that I lived._

The demon’s eyes widened. As ever his young master surprised him, thrilled him with the depth of his conviction, his determination to never request nor accept respite. Never in life and not now when staring up at his utter end, his inevitable obliteration. A sapphire eye gazed up at the demon and spoke only truth, that Lord Phantomhive would never shirk his duty, not to Queen and country, not to the inhuman being with whom he held an unholy covenant. He would accept his end and, with the dignity of his forefathers, take what he had earned, that to which he had agreed. 

A gentleman to the last, young Lord Phantomhive he would neither barter nor beg; the notion to do such thing did not cross his earl’s rapacious mind. The ignorant might call it pride, and yes, his young master was a proud creature. A sparrow so certain on its heading it would not be swayed from its path, not by the buffeting of the fiercest storm. 

Would the sparrow demand the wind to stop howling, lighting to cease its fury? No, it would not.

Lord Phantomhive would not deign demand such a thing, much less request such a favor. Not from anyone, not even a demon. 

What a marvelous little beast his young master was. So tempting. 

The demon swayed towards him, thin white lips parting. 

He must savor this, the first bite into such succulence. 

There was nothing in his long, wretched existence that would ever compare to the next moment, when his young master would be undone, his soul consumed, and exist no more.

Under gentle fingers the ribbon loosened. Lord Phantomhive’s eyepatch fluttered, a whisper of silk delicate and ephemeral as a wish, and landed in the dirt. Sebastian must see their contract sealed one last time in the marred beauty of his master’s demonic eye.

When the demon’s lips first touched his young lord’s flesh and black tipped fingers slid along that young cheek, cool and smooth as marble, the demon mourned how dull his existence would become in the next moment. Yes, he would be sated, he would thrive on this soul for centuries, perhaps a millennia or more. 

But...

Ciel Phantomhive’s existence would become mere footnote in the history of the world. 

What a luminous little scribble he had been! An incalculably rare, fleeting, brilliant creature the likes of which Sebastian had never encountered. The demon’s existence would become such a bore after this meal, the bright wash of colors of this epoch in his long life fading once more to monochrome, at the most a variety of dull greys he would have to content himself with eternally. 

In all his existence, the demon could not hope to ever consume another soul a fraction as delicious, so beautifully seasoned with pain and bitter joy, with integrity and carelessness, basted in the blood of the guilty, peppered with the tears of the innocent whom his beautifully callous young master trampled upon in his self-righteous crusade for vengeance.

Lips, thin and narrow, inhumanly warm, banked by hellfire, brushed over the cool stone of his young master’s forehead. A benediction and a curse in one.

The young Earl Phantomhive’s eyes, one unblemished, deep and stormy as the English Channel, the other glorious in its mutilation and pulsing violent, flashed open once more. They landed upon the demon who had taken to one knee before him. A hand, once again gloved in pristine white, raised to him.

“I know demons are cruel, but this delay is unbecoming, Sebastian,” his dictator snapped. “We had an accord and it is met. Do it! Now!” Ah, his delightful little lord. His voice did not break, not even slightest quiver. 

“My young master,” the demon said lightly, eyes dancing with the ruby flames of hell. “The best gourmande knows it is not only seasoning that brings a dish to full flavor.”

“I dislike this sort of game and have even less tolerance for riddles. Speak plain, insolent demon!”

“The most important step in the preparation of any meal, much less one of such import and grandeur, cannot be rushed. It is most vital, or else the dish is spoilt.”

“Be done with your prattle of culinary techniques. Feast then!”

A white gloved fingertip, clad in the finest Egyptian cotton, pressed impudently upon the lips of the young early silencing him in a manner the demon had never before dared. Lord Phantomhive’s eyes glowed with fury, the spark of violet lashing over the demon’s porcelain countenance.

“It is aging.” 

The demon’s tongue flicked out, sampling the slowly gathering miasma that hovered over master and servant, demon and lord. Sebastian let the tip glide over his upper lip in a slow sweep. 

The obscenity was not lost on his young master, even as the earl’s station and youth would not allow him to acknowledge it. He did not blink, even as a shudder ran through his slight frame. A cold fury spread over the impudent little tyrant’s face, yet his voice was calm as he jerked his head away. 

“This is how you obey me? You are less than worthless, Sebastian.”

Elegantly long fingertips feathered under the small pointed chin, curling to frame the boy-king’s doll like face. Slowly, none too gently, they dug into his soft cheeks to keep the demon’s dictator still. 

“Ah, but I am merely obeying the most important order you have ever given me. The one you most ardently wish followed above any other, even if you did not glean the full import of it when given.”

The cold blue eye lashed over the demon’s perfect features, not dashing about in panic as a hare startled from its den. Assessing as a raptor’s beam, scanning for weakness. “And what would that be, butler?” The disdain that dripped from his young master’s lips was ambrosia. Sweet and foul as poisoned mead; he would sup on it for days. 

“You shall live a while longer.”

Earl Phantomhive narrowed his beautiful, mangled gaze. “I did not ask for nor will I accept such a ‘gift’, Sebastian. Honor the contract and let us both be done with this.”

Pale lips arched upward in a graceful curve, all malevolent tenderness. “This is not a gift. This is my brutality, my lord.”


	2. His Master, Disciplined

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said I'd update this every 3 days but, honestly, I'm enjoying this so much I am rather eager and decided toss up the next one a day early. 
> 
> Please let me know if you like it, comments fuel my perverse fire!

The most delicious aspect of the addendum to their contract was the freedom Sebastian now found himself awash in. He would serve his impudent tyrant, as faithfully and effectively as ever, but it was at his own will and not Lord Phantomhive's. 

Others did not remark upon, nor even notice a difference, the butler as genteel and obsequious as ever as he executed his little lord’s commands. 

Not even his tyrannical master mentioned it, but the demon knew it was noted. The merry tilt to one side of Sebastian’s implacable smile when he spoke to his earl. The mocking lift of his eyes to gaze throughlashes upon his despot as he bowed with a “Yes, my little lord” before he dashed away upon another errand for the false Queen’s guard dog. 

It was all dissected under his princeling's cool gaze, sharp as scalpel seeking to flay the demon’s machinations open to the bloody core. 

The sneer upon Lord Phantomhive’s lips as he commented upon another impossible deed well and truly met, “Took you long enough, Sebastian,” was more contemptuous than ever. 

The demon nearly preened under his lord’s altered regard, blooming when he was meant to wilt. A thorny weed among the Phantomhive rose garden, creeping, pernicious, intent on winding itself inextricably among the blooms, lifting them higher to the sun’s rays before inevitably strangling them. The pristine, ivory beauty of the petals despoiled by the demon’s very presence. Such blossoms were all the more treasured for their transient bloom before they surrendered to the eventual rot.

If only Finnie tended the grounds with as much care as the black butler dedicated to slowly coaxing the young earl to flower, the Phantomhive arboretum would be the envy of England.

Of course, Sebastian noted with an unheard sigh, some roses came with many more thorns than their pedigree intended.

He looked up at his lord from his knee, gloves dripping with the tea little Lord Phantomhive poured into his upturned palms.

“This is the watery swill you serve me? Honestly, Sebastian, I thought I trained you out of this ages ago. Make another pot. “ His young master sighed irritably as he placed the delicate china cup back in its saucer. The demon’s ruby gaze remained fixed on the side of his spoiled kaiser’s face as he turned his blue eye to the pile of missives on his desk that awaited his attention. 

A subtle tic of muscle. There, just under that delicate cheekbone. The corner of the little pasha’s lips hitching up for a second before returning to its usual pout.

“And clean that up before it blots the Persian.”

His young master thought he was clever and started a game without inviting the demon’s attention to it. Ah, but it was unseemly to attack an opponent unaware a contest had even begin.

“Yes, my lord,” the demon responded silkily and rose gracefully to his feet, keeping his bespoiled hands close to his chest lest he drip again on the fine rug. At the doorway he paused, glancing over his shoulder at his little lord. “If the next does not meet your liking you may consider pouring it upon my head.”

Two days later Lord Phantomhive did just that. Mey-rin’s shocked gasp pierced the quiet of the library from where she dusted the shelves mere feet away.

“The Caper Souchang is not to your liking? I shall strike it from the menu in the future.” Ruby eyes blinked through wet fringe plastered over his forehead.

“Perhaps not, its seems suited for washing the dog,” the young master snipped from his armchair, slim hand idly turning a page as though its companion had not just upended an entire pot over the butler.

Sebastian could hear Mey-rin’s splutter of confusion and shock. This simply would not do.

“My lord,” the demon offered as he began to pat at his waistcoat with his kerchief, “If you are displeased with my tea selection it would be best to save such chastisements for private. The domestics shouldn’t see you put into such a temper over my dismal service.”

Lord Phantomhive’s widened as the admonishment as the little earl rose to his feet. “You dare correct me, Sebastian?! Impertinent creature!” The smash of fine porcelain to the floor as the diminutive despot’s hand darted out and upended the tea cart brought Mey-rin running. She crashed to her knees, using the hem of her skirt to blot the mess before it stained for lack of anything better at hand.

“Oh, young sir! The Balouchi rug!” she cried out, distressed she had nothing better to preserve the fine threads as the liquid penetrated deeper. “‘Twas your mother’s! Sebastian! Fetch water and Finnie. He must bring lavender! And I need sodium bicarbonate from the kitchen, hurry!”

The young Earl Phantomhive blinked at the maid’s commands that sent his butler from the room with a swish of tailcoats. He feigned, from behind a novel, that he did not observe from his armchair the panic lining her young face as she dabbed at the priceless carpet with her white apron. The twinge of self reproachment, as she and Finnie worked a few feet away to preserve the rug, as Sebastian plucked up broken shards of invaluable porcelain, was well and truly buried behind a bored expression.

The next time a meal was dashed to the floor at least the polished oak of the dining room withstood the stain easier.

“Have the fires of the pit destroyed your tongue, wretch?” the petulant sovereign raged as Haricot soup splashed over the golden wood. “I’ll not eat this peasant fare!”

The butler stood at attention, expression implacable as ever while the little czar mewled in the throes of his tantrum. “My apologies, my lord. I will inform Baldroy at once his contribution is not to your liking. Perhaps his next attempt to please will satisfy better.” 

The butler slipped away as effortlessly as smoke upon the breeze as young Lord Phantomhive’s cheek flamed with pique.

When the young master encountered his chef upon a back stairway the man ducked his head obsequiously and did not meet his gaze as the little aristocrat passed.

Finnie burst into tears he failed to hide from his master’s gaze when the little lordling’s cane lopped blooms off the wildflowers he’d found growing in a side row as he inspected his grounds. The weedy pet project of the gardener was beneath the concerns of an earl. 

If a crate of new seedlings arrived the following week it was not at the master of the house’s direction. Certainly not.

All was well within the grounds of the Phantomhive estate. An earl might show his disapproval of his servants’ work as he pleases; he is the master, and it is at his leisure they serve and do not starve on the streets.

But, honestly, replacing the worsted wool of Sebastian’s trousers so regularly had become vexing. It bordered on incautious to waste so much money replacing a servant’s clothing this often. 

The demon looked down at his young master’s sullen expression with an ill-contained glare. “If young master tires of his Latin lesson he need only order it ended. That Caran d’Ache ink is not inexpensive.”

“You know of what I tire, Sebastian!” the young earl flared, throwing his fountain pen across the desk. “And it is my damned ink!” His small dictator seized the well and raised his arm to fling it in the butler’s face. 

The sharp slap of the demon’s ungloved hand against the aristocrat’s cheek shocked the boy into stillness.

“This behavior is unbecoming, my little lord,” Sebastian rebuked in a mild tone. It might as well have been another blow the way the boy flinched. The hand not holding the inkwell rose to his stinging cheek.

“You...you struck me…” The stunned wonder in his voice was quickly replaced by fury. “How dare you strike me, dog!”

The black butler’s hand shot out and gripped the young earl’s slender arm in a fierce clench even as it rose to return the slap. 

“Yes, I dare, my lord.” 

In a moment the demon had the fierce little caliph hauled over his knee as he perched on the desk. “Do hold still and this shall not last long.” The hand rose again and this time came down hard on the young lord’s backside.

“Ah! You dare-! Ah! Sebastian! Stop it!” All hauteur gone from the young voice, Ciel, Earl of Phantomhive screeched in pain and mortification to be manhandled so. And by the help! 

“Don’t-ah! You foul demon! Ah-unhand m-ah!” His cries grew with each slap to his tender form until the outraged protestations dissolved into a string of syllables with no meaning behind them besides pain. 

Only when the leg of the demon’s stained trousers grew wet with something other than ink did the butler stop. He lifted his young lord gently from his lap and set him on his feet, taking to a knee to tip fingers under that pink, tear stained face. 

“You are but a child, my lord,” Sebastian said with such unexpected tenderness it stung the little earl as effectively as another blow. “No matter your lineage or the finery with which you clad yourself.” The butler’s hand tweaked the sapphire silk of his lord’s overcoat, now ruined by ink from Sebastian’s trousers. “If you insist upon behaving as one, you shall be treated like the brat you are.”

The diminutive Lord Phantomhive’s glare was ferocious, even as water leaked from his eyes, dampening the silk eyepatch over his ruined orb. But the tremble to his lip and the hiccup in his breathe betrayed the boy beneath the trappings and title weighing down his young head.

“I believe the saying is ‘this hurt me more than you’, but I have to admit I rather enjoyed that,” the butler informed his humiliated lord with a smile, relishing the loathing his little imperator poured into his tear-rimmed gaze. “My master, you know I never lie to you, correct?” 

An imperceptible tilt of the earl’s head, likely against his will, acknowledged the horrid truth in that. 

“So you will believe me when I say behave in a manner that denigrates the Phantomhive name or upsets the domestics, and I shall do that again. And next time fine linens will not part my hand from your bare flesh.”

The young Earl Phantomhive gasped in pain and shock as a large hand slithered around him to cruelly squeeze one bruised cheek.

It took a few months and another two thrashings before little Lord Phantomhive gave up his childish rages at his butler for the betrayal of their contract. It was another two before his maid, chef, and gardener could look him in the eye.


	3. His Master, Humiliating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, 3 days later another chapter. Pleased as punch I'm sticking to my schedule for once. You can expect chapter 4 on Tuesday.

Sebastian’s gloved fingertip alighted upon his young master’s knee. “If you would cease moving this could be accomplished more quickly, my lord.”

The earl’s feet ceased their childish swinging, and he allowed his butler to fasten his garters and tie his laces before he stood, arms obediently held out to let his manservant slip the emerald green frock over his shoulders. He stood before the mirror and turned this way and that.

“Is this acceptable, my refined demon?”

Ah, his little lord, what amusing turns his mind took. They both knew he cared for his butler’s thoughts on his finery no more than he cared for the opinion of a cockroach, but it amused them both to allow this game to play out. 

Sebastian tipped his elegant head to one side and a white gloved fingertip tapped his lower lip. “Perhaps not the green, my lord. The burgundy velvet, I think.”

“Velvet, in spring. Positively scandalous, Sebastian,” the young lord murmured even as he turned to allow the demon to re-clad him with the newest addition to his collection of immaculately ornate frocks. He allowed himself to be buttoned into the double breasted tailcoat and lifted his proud chin higher as a ruffled cravat was tied at his throat, the silk an expensive caress against his skin. 

“Indeed. And we both know how loathe the Earl of Phantomhive is to cause a stir among the gentry.” They shared a smirk at that, as if the diminutive despot gave a damn about such things.

The young noble, now in his 14th year, was pliant under the demon’s hands as carved ebony buttons were smoothly slid through, the custom coat tailored to his slim build. Fitted at the waist before flaring out in a luxurious fall of fabric to skim the bare backs of his knees, it suited the decadent little monster beautifully.

Well beyond the age deemed appropriate by all polite society the young earl had yet to abandon his short pants. His wardrobe, on the whole, defied convention and he strode through throngs of his peers, in their more streamlined and conservative dress, with all the flash of a peacock among the mudhens. 

That evening, at one of the social gatherings the young noble was more and more frequently pressed into attending, the women admired his style with envious whispers behind silk fans, even as their slim eyebrows arched in disapproval at his ostentation easily outshining their own. 

The men knew not what to make of the glamorous young lord as he swanned through a fête, a long polonaise basque trailing silk along the floor with a whisper. Nor did they have any notion what to think of the equally elegant, if understated, manservant who trailed in his wake as though carried on the wafts of rose water that followed the Earl of Phantomhive wherever he went. 

Who dressed their help in a jabot blouse with its excessive ruffled cuffs and collar? Much less Regency tailcoats in inky silk? And why, when the rest of the domestics waited outside with the carriages or in the servants’ hall, did the tall figure of the black butler glide through the crowd as though in escort of the self-indulgent little earl?

“Sebastian, would you fetch me a claret? There’s a lovely chap.”

A slim glass was presented to the little lord as he lounged on a chaise, his uncovered blue eye wandering idly over the throngs as they enjoyed a brief intermission between Jean-Alexander Talazac and some new rising German opera singer he cared not a whit for. 

He was here on the false Queen’s orders, which were really the Yard’s orders now, Her Majesty no longer his regent given she was an utter fraud. But it did not perturb the earl to pretend he was still loyal. He did, after all, not loathe the Phantomhive duty, not anymore since his personal vengeance had been slaked. Some days he found he was nearly beginning to enjoy his work. Nearly.

Being conscripted into galas like this, however, would never grow on the earl. He had little patience for the droning, superficial prattle bandied about at such events. But if one waited, quiet and alert, beneath the light ripples of genteel voices one would eventually detect the deeper tides that dragged Victorian society along its ruinous path.

“Is it to your liking, my young master?”

The youthful kaiser glanced up at his butler as the dark figure loomed next to his chaise. “It is marginal. Would you be so kinda as to procure a case to be sent to Miss Elizabeth? Her unrefined palette would appreciate such obnoxious sweetness.”

“Yes, my lord,” Sebastian said in a hushed voice, even as his gaze tipped in the direction of their prey: Baron Feversham. An odious smear on the noble class, one the earl would wipe off the sole of his well-heeled shoe by the end of the evening.

Lord Phantomhive’s blue eye landed on the Baron, a fine looking gent, in a middling sort of manner. Not much style, nor gentility, but a noble enough brow, a pleasant smoothness to his features, as inoffensive on the outside as his inner perversity was repulsive.

“I desire a sweet, Sebastian. Be a pearl and fetch me something, would you?” 

“Yes, my lord.” Sebastian glided away with a smile teasing at his refined features. His young master’s attitude had taken an amusing turn in the last year. Long gone were the tantrums and unbecoming bouts of ill temper and, in their place, a genteel, syrupy sweet manner. Each order phrased as a request, each statement often prefaced or followed by a flowery compliment or a lavish pet name.

They both knew Lord Phantomhive was as sincere in his elegant politeness towards his butler as a crocodile’s smile. But it was an improvement over his previous unflattering fits of pique. Such a waste of fine china that had been.

Of course, the new tenor to their accord held its own pitfalls. Such as when the butler returned with a tray of petit fours and other sweets to present to his young master and had to feed him a bite of each one from his fingers.

It did not rankle the demon, but rather amused him terribly, as his young master rearranged himself upon the chaise, one leg sliding along the other in a languorous motion that drew the eye of those around them to the pale flash of his knee, the flattering curve of slim calves that should not be on such obvious display for an aristocrat of his age. The little fascinator upon his lord’s head, with its spider web of netting falling in a graceful arch over his adolescent face, bobbed as the youth opened his mouth to sink even white teeth into a peach topped tartlet and nearly grazed the immaculately gloved fingers of his servant.

Ah, his extravagant little rajah, how he seemed to enjoy this game as he nodded to Sebastian to dab at his lower lip with a silk kerchief to whisk away any crumb. It was one of a hundred little motions the butler would make this evening, catering to his young lord’s every movement and wish, from blotting his mouth to adjusting the splendid fall of fabrics draped alongside him, all in front of the alleged best of English society. 

While before nothing the butler did would meet his young lord’s tastes, now his master feigned utter dependence upon his demon for the slightest thing, keeping his unholy butler stepping and fetching from dawn until after the witching hours some days. 

An untied lace, an unsightly smudge on a glass through which Lord Phantomhive wished to look, a blatantly feigned world weary sigh that bespoke of a deep and unrelenting languor that required the butler to pluck up the earl’s fork and feed him one morsel at a time. 

The butler knelt at his side, eyes fixated on his delicate dictator as he sampled one bite, then another, chewing slowly and cleansing his palette every once in awhile with a crystal glass of water or wine tipped to his handsomely curved lips by his attentive manservant.

Every fastidious action was performed without spilling a drop or allowing a crumb to befoul the elegant visage his young lord presented, swathed in silks and satins and delicate laces until it seemed he would drown in the decadence of it all, were his head not held so high above any others’.

Neither the butler nor the earl cared a jot for the rustle of shocked whispers that skittered through the crowd when young noble lifted his hand with all the grace of a ballerina to touch his butler’s cheek lightly, and said, “Sebastian, my pet, I find myself requiring the necessary. Won’t you show me the way, dove?” 

Lord Phantomhive damn well knew where the lavatory was, but he delighted in making his butler do every inconsequential thing for him, rather than using his unholy powers for the purpose they had been contracted. Despite many months of this feigned helplessness he’d not yet tired of his game. 

To be honest, neither was the butler weary of it. He quite enjoyed the necessity of being at his horrid little master’s side morning, noon, and night to tend to his smallest whim. He sometimes salivated over the sweet and dimpled false dependency directed at him, the way one marvels at how well a thin gilding of gold to a frame can nearly compensate for the artist’s lack of talent with an ostentatious display of wealth. 

His little lord could afford to not care at all what others thought when he could afford everything else, including a demon butler. 

But there was a time limit on the demon’s patience for each bout of their games, along with being called a pet, and it was met.

Sebastian bowed, a merry glint in his garnet gaze as his slim gloved hand took the earl’s fine boned fingers and lead him to his feet.

“Ah, my young master, your polonaise. I fear it may be trod upon, and that I cannot allow.” Clever fingers swiftly snaked along the earl’s arm and slipped around his waist. “It only just arrived from Jacques Doucet’s salon.” There was a hushed murmur of covetousness from the ladies to their left. Whether for the _haute couture_ or the insidiously intimate tone the butler used with his master was unclear.

“Allow me,” the demon offered most genteelly as he lifted the earl from his feet to settle him on his hip, as he ever did when dashing his malignant master from danger.

Or as one does a toddler to keep them from wandering astray in their ignorance.

All conversation halted instantly, and not a single eye could be turned from the spectacle.

To his credit, young Lord Phantomhive did not bluster nor blush at the insidious maneuver by his clever demon. To be sure, his velvet and silks were in no danger of being crushed as Sebastian gracefully carried him across the salon, but the earl’s pride took a nearly fatal blow. Fortunately, his dignity and breeding allowed him to keep his countenance a smooth mask of indifference as the faces of the party’s attendees smeared past.

Once they were in the hallway, Lord Phantomhive said quietly, with as much poise as he had ever mustered, “This overabundance of caution for my garments is not necessary, my faithful creature. I can walk.” Only the rising pink tinge to his smooth cheek gave away the real feeling beneath the phrasing.

“Oh no, my little lord. Nothing pleases me more than to preserve the line of your drape; it is particularly flattering tonight,” the demon demurred as he slipped through the next salon with willowy grace, trotting Lord Phantomhive past another gaggle of the gentry, who gawped like greedy koi breaking the surface of a pond. This sight would certainly fill their gossipy maws for weeks, if not months.

His youthful emperor laughed, a musical yet brittle thing, as they swept down the next hall. “Really, Sebastian, it is not required but much appreciated, still. You can let me down now, my dear demon.”

The butler did so, but only after the heavy door to the necessary closed and locked behind them. Then he was at his beastly master’s back, the dark line of his statuesque form looming over the little lord’s as now bare hands slipped around the despot's torso and lifted a fall of ruffles from the earl’s hip. The indignant squawk his obnoxious ruler made was more melodious than any aria sung that evening.

The violet contract sigil upon the demon’s hand pulsed in time with his diminutive earl’s anger, which made unfastening his young master’s fine breeches all the more filthily decadent as fingertips slipped over the even more silken smoothness of the skin below his young master’s navel.

“Enough, Sebastian!” young Lord Phantomhive barked, the nauseating syrup that had laced his voice these last months gone in an instant. “If your foul touch moves another inch I will bite your fingers off and spit them in your face!”

The black butler nearly tittered at his back, and the stately column of his neck craned to peer at the rage flushed profile of his addictive tyrant. “It would not bother me one whit to hold it while you relieve yourself.”

“Get off me, devil,” his lordling hissed with all the venom of a mamba.

Sebastian sighed, low and languorous, his chest expanding to press into the silken curve of his master’s frame. It then contracted and bowed as his hands upon the boy-prince’s waist pressed him to the demon’s unwrinkled tailcoat, as luxurious as any worn by the aristocracy this evening. 

A dark dress up doll his malicious master spent months playing with and moving pointlessly about in a futile effort to aggravate the demon into consuming him out of sheer spite.

“Are you quite certain, my lord? If you were so inclined I’d even give it a little shake or two.”

The gasp from his enraged tyrant when the demon’s tongue flickered out to slide along the ivory arch of his ear was nectar itself. The perfume of roses that wafted about his master thickened before turning musky as the young earl flinched in the iron embrace of his butler.

“I am positive. Release me, you gargoyle.” Without waiting for his servant to slacken his grip the young earl wrenched himself free of it, heedless of the rend of fabric under the butler’s polished shoe. The train ripped at the seam and fell away, a slither of ebony brocade and wine velvet dropping to the floor with the finality of the opera house curtain after the last notes die away.

And there his little lord stood, cheeks stained with the flush of ire and shock, hands clutching at his breeches, a gorgeous tattered ruin of the demon’s making. Oh, how Sebastian nearly adored this spiteful child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Polonaise basque - late 1700s women's style of dress that involved a cutaway draped swag that, when worn en basque, consisted of an upper bodice section that overlapped the lower section in a series of poofs
> 
> Jabot blouse - shirt with a pleated frill of lace or cloth attached at the neck and voluminous sleeves that was going out of fashion with men in the late 19th century, but women retained it a while longer
> 
> Regency tailcoat - a wool coat style popular in the early 1800’s, high in the front with long overlapping tails in the back, no waist seam or front lapel seam, made for a slim fit, with a raised collar
> 
> Basically, Ciel's fashion taste harkens back to an earlier, more luxurious era.


	4. His Master, Obstinate

The polished ebony cane pressed firmly against the demon butler’s flank, moving him to the side as the Earl of Phantomhive strode forward, his refined features not deigning to twist with the revulsion he felt for the wretch at his feet.

“Enough of your snivelling, Xiong,” intoned the earl, looking down his elegant slim nose. “Your opium shipment burns even now, fouling the air of Mayfair.”

When the smuggler looked up at him and jibbered in his native tongue, feigning incomprehension, the butler mocked in Jiang-Huai, “If you think pretending ignorance of his words will save y-”

“Butler, I did not ask you to speak for me,” Lord Phantomhive said cooly in flawless Jiao-Liao Mandarin, the smuggler’s actual dialect, and the kneeling wretch before them paled.

Sebastian inclined his head and took another step back, watching with approval as his master interrogated the criminal with as much ruthlessness as the demon might ever hope to muster. His master’s barbed words were as effective as any physical torment the unholy servant could inflict upon an enemy of his earl’s crown.

Even the style with which he raised his cane to bring it down swiftly upon the man’s head was splendid in its own right. The blueblood’s frame a refined arc as he raised his arm then swung with the speed of a serpent’s strike. The curved steel talon that formed the grip sliced through the terrified man’s cheek, a brutal poetry in the strike the demon’s gaze greedily devoured.

Yes, his young master was growing into quite the opulent instrument of terror. At sixteen years gone was the beguiling roundness of his cheeks, replaced by delectably sharp angles. The short hair long enough now to be tucked behind pierced ears, until action caused a cobalt lock to swing forward and curl becomingly along his jaw as it offered forth exquisitely phrased threats of torture to the writhing supplicant at his feet.

The rhythm of the blows from the earl’s cane was in perfect counterpoint to the meter of his horrid prose. The passion in his ire stirred something in the demon’s breast more ardently than any sonnet might a swooning lover.

Satisfied this man would no longer impugn upon Lau’s exclusive grip on London’s opium trade, Lord Phantomhive flicked his cane to cast off the foul blood gathered at the grip, eschewing the kerchief offered to him by his butler in favor of fishing one from his own amethyst tail coat to clean it. He did allow Sebastian to take the befouled cloth when he was done, and demon set it alight with a flash of heat through his fingers.

“Might I have the indulgence of disposing of him, my little lord?” Sebastian requested politely.

His lovely tyrant inhaled slowly, mastering his passions after letting loose upon the unconscious knave at his feet. Leather gloved fingers twisted a lock of hair back behind his ear and his uncovered violent eye shone in the near dark of the courtyard, now quiet except for the wet burbles of Xiong’s lungs as he slowly suffocated on his own blood. 

“You may assist me in doing so myself, Sebastian.” His voice, once high and occasionally nasal when roused to excitement, had mellowed the last year and was quite pleasant to the ear, especially when dripping vile oaths in a dozen languages over those the earl and his butler hunted and haunted.

“Of course, my young master.”

The black butler did so delight in evenings like this, when his master was in a mood to sully his exquisite hands. Between the two of them, Xiong’s carcass was apportioned into neat quarters within the hour, Sebastian accepting each limb offered to him by his lord with all the reverence of the devout receiving the Eucharist. 

As the earl discarded his expensive and ichor fouled coat to the flames his butler conjured, Sebastian wrapped each offered body part as neatly as a Christmas package. They would be posted to Xiong’s lieutenants on the morrow. The following day the Earl of Phantomhive expected their ships’ sails would vanish across the Channel, never to return.

“Masterfully done, my little lord,” the butler offered at the carriage door as he held out a clean frock for his murderous shah to slip into.

“Spare me your flattery, Sebastian. Bloody work must needs be done, and I do not always require you for it,” his little lord said haughtily even as the demon’s spotless gloved fingers laced the diamond tipped stickpin through his cravat to hold it just so.

“Flattery implies the praise is unmerited,” the demon replied smoothly as he followed his master into the barouche, and the carriage lurched into motion. “And you know I do not lie.”

“Tch,” the earl tsked. “That was when our contract was under seal, years ago. Now, you may well lie to my face with every breath.” Lord Phantomhive shot his cuffs to the length he found acceptable then gracefully crossed his legs. The short pants were not so long gone, and still occasionally worn when Lord Phantomhive sought to befuddle and bewitch an audience. Contemporary fashion could hang itself; it was so middling and dull, and the demon’s master was anything but. 

The things the sight of a well shaped leg, seemingly naked except for smooth silken hose, could wring out the perverse was astonishing. In this age of stuffy, tight-laced stoics the magnetic young noble was a luminous will ‘o wisp, something both marveled at and murmured over even among the lowest dregs of society, and always with a tinge of fear. His beauty was both breathtaking and deadly fearsome, the sharpest blade lurking in the most luxurious of sheaths.

More often these days the short pants were replaced by trousers in sumptuous fabrics, intricately detailed with embroidery in threads of silver, silk, and gold, the cut tailored especially for him, to hug the lovely swell of strong calves, to showcase the solid muscle of athletic thighs honed by relentless, rigorous activity. Whether it was riding his stable of fine stallions or stalking a serial killer through the dingy streets of London, the Earl of Phantomhive with a lithesome beast. 

Although his his legs may now be covered, it was done so in a manner that struck many an observer as unseemly, bordering on obscene, with the tightness of the fabric. The handsomeness of his frame was blatantly displayed when the young noble reclined against silk cushions generously scattered about his carriage, his head propped upon his hand as he gave his butler a dismissive look for daring to look amused at the accusation.

“We are, as ever, still contracted. Only I possess equal mastery of it now, my little lord.” The demon’s eyes glowed in the low light filtering from the gaslamp as the barouche passed on its way back to the Phantomhive London house. Tomorrow, once the butler sent his amusing parcels out, they would depart for the family estate and abandon the sour stench of London for the perfume of the earl’s garden once more.

“As if I need reminding,” the young earl sighed as his fingers dipped into a box of Funtom chocolates. “You are as a cat, Sebastian, toying with your meal pointlessly. Is such play to lower the domesticated instincts my service has bred into you? Or are you simply a sadist?”

“Does my lord compare himself to the mouse?” The demon’s smile was merry around the canines he allowed to lengthen. When the next gaslamp shone into the carriage, Lord Phantomhive saw the flash of them and rolled his eyes at the display, delighting the black butler with his utter lack of fear of his devilish servant’s ravenous maw. It had ceased to perturb the despot ages ago; if anything such displays bored him.

“Don’t be stupid, Sebastian, it’s unattractive. You know what I mean. I fail to see how any of this is to your benefit when you could gobble me up any time you like.” Years ago the uncertainty of his demon’s protracted dining plan might have discomfited the earl, but one could hang on tenterhooks only so long before anxiety gave way to malaise and, inevitably, to indifference.

After all, threats held no power without the completion of consequence.

His dictator popped a chocolate into his mouth and hummed with pleasure as his perfect teeth cracked the thin shell and lemony cream spilled over his tongue. Sebastian watched as his lord rolled to his back, bringing one leg up to the carriage seat, the very picture of indolent repose as his tongue swirled about to chase the flavor of one of his newest confectionary creations.

“And yet you follow me still, bending to my every order or otherwise standing idle when I do not need your hands to mete justice. Does it not grow tedious?” His extravagant kaiser could not have sounded more careless with his question, as the answer mattered not to him either way. The indefinite threat of damnation has lost its power over him, if it ever truly had any. 

“I could never be bored at my master’s side,” he vowed with all the honesty he possessed. It was simply not possible. Each day Lord Phantomhive grew into his majority, moved beyond the furious little creature Sebastian first met, was a marvel to behold. How genuinely noble his earl was becoming, how quick of mind, how ruthless, how vicious. 

There was a terrible art to his actions, the loveliness of his knife slicing through skin and sinew and bone, cutting out rot at the very core of England, as he sought to drown London’s streets in sanguine tides. Few had the privilege to watch such a master at their glorious, gory craft.

The young noble’s unnatural violet gaze was heavy as a touch upon the demon’s refined visage. “I’d no notion you were such an admirer, Sebastian. What purple prose you lavish on me.” 

Oh, it seemed the demon had forgotten himself and said the last aloud. He did not demur nor blush, such a thing was not in the demon’s nature. He merely inclined his head. “As I said, I do not lie, my little lord. Never to you.” 

He did not bother to raise his hand to bat away the chocolate his earl flicked at him, instead parting his lips to catch the confection on his tongue. 

“Mmmm,” he hummed, ruby eyes disappearing in the gloom of the carriage as he closed them to savor the rare treat. “While I am not partial to sweets, this absolutely melts on the tongue. It is all silk and luxury. I would expect nothing less from you, young master.”

The scent of roses turned thick in the carriage.

A fortnight later Sebastian stood at the library window, garnet gaze glittering as he surveyed midnight over his regent’s estate. Lord Phantomhive had an uninvited guest. No, several. 

Marvellous, the demon had not adequate sport for a while. 

Regretfully, Lord Phantomhive’s reputation had crept across the countryside, slow moving and inevitable as the spring floods, and drowned the aspirations of many a would-be assassin. As a result, nights were often a little too quiet for the demon’s taste.

He thrummed his fingers over the collection of Augustan Christian Drenwert II silver in his breast pocket. Only half a dozen, he may have to reuse one or two to dispatch the unwelcome. 

Dirty flatware.

How unbecoming.

Sebastian clambered spider-like from the upper casement and eked his way down the side of the manor. Jumping certainly would have been more expeditious, but the demon found himself in a playful mood this evening. The moon had only begun its wane and the gardens were quite pleasant this time of year; perhaps he’d lead the last one or two on a little chase to protract his amusement. There was only so much dusting one could do before risking ruin to the varnish of the balustrade.

The fillet he made of the first intruded was quite deft, if he did say so himself. He wouldn’t be at all ashamed to serve a lamb loin so elegantly carved to his master. 

The second he savored the spark of terror in the man’s eyes as he attempted to cry out and could not, his larynx paralyzed with a deft strike of the butler’s fingers. 

Oh, what a charming little wheeze he made!

The demon’s eyes glowed red in delight, causing the man to fall back upon his seat while his fingers trembled as he raised the pistol. A teaspoon was speedily wedged into the flintlock before the hammer struck. 

The demon did not bother to duck when the useless weapon was flung at him in futile panic, content to let it bounce off his forehead to land in his hand.

The creak of the wood grip splintering under his strength had the wretch on his feet and running before the pieces hit the ground. Sebastian hamstrung him with a butter knife to the back of each leg, then crouched over the assassin’s prostrate form and allowed his tongue to slither out simply for the entertainment of watching the men’s eyes go round and white as the moon above.

The crossbow bolt through the man’s temple snuffed out the light in his terrified gaze in an instant, and the demon’s head turned, slowly as though on a rusty hinge, to favor his master will an exasperated look.

“I had him, my lord.”

The earl of Phantomhive stepped from behind a tree, weapon resting against his shoulder. “I’m not blind, Sebastian, but you were taking too long. It is truly necessary to send them into a positive frenzy before dispatching them?”

The demon stood up, tugging his sleeves to eliminate any wrinkle in the line of his suit. “Of course not, but the night is long and the month’s books are balanced, the kitchen prepared for tomorrow, and the laundry complete.”

The Earl of Phantomhive appeared thoughtful as he approached the demon, nocking another bolt into his weapon. “So this is where you are bored then?” The earl sighed as though his demon’s antics wearied him beyond measure. “...I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to allow you occasional entertainment.”

“Terribly generous of you, my little lord,” the demon said quite sincerely with a half bow.

His dictator looked down at the man at their feet and prodded his still form with a plain boot. It seemed the earl had risen again after going to bed and dressed himself in his plainest garb, things that might even pass for Baldroy’s were they not still exquisitely tailored and hung on him as well as one of his ornate frocks. In the dim of the garden he wore heather grey wool trousers and a black muslim shirt tucked to the waist. 

Lord Phantomhive was elegantly predatory in such garb, a crossbow held as casually in his hand as one of his cherished Sherlock Holmes novels.

“Master, it is quite late and not as warm as one may hope for the season. You should return inside lest you catch a chill.” The demon’s concern for his master’s presence had naught to do with the temperature, but more the the young earl’s temperament. He may vacillate in a moment and deny Sebastian his evening’s diversion, willful beast he was, and demand the demon return to the manor with him to prepare a late snack or something equally frustrating.

“Tch, don’t coddle me, Sebastian.” He prodded the body one last time, turning the head with a toe to the chin so he could look upon the face. No one the earl recognized, therefore no one of any consequence, just some unfortunate sent on a fool’s errand. 

“Besides, a little sport would warm me well.” The earl’s one uncovered eye met the demon’s garnet gaze. “I believe there’s still several lurking about the perimeter. Best of then? But not the quickest, as you’d distinct advantage...the most creative manner of dispatch?”

Oh, now this was the sort of delightful game the demon was more than ready to join!

“I do enjoy a challenge, master,” the demon murmured silkily, tongue sliding out in an indecent fashion to whisk over his lips as they curled up in merriment.

Well past the time any decent person, lord or servant, should be awake the Earl of Phantomhive and his demon butler stalked the remaining cut-throats through the estate. Where another young noble might have darted among the garden hedges in chase of a flirtatious sweetheart, Lord Phantomhive crept after increasingly terrified mercenaries. The crossbow abandoned an hour ago as unchallenging, the young aristocrat snatched up 2 cast off pieces of his silver and intended to use them well.

He paused near a dark figure lingering under a willow bough, tying off a line of silken thread, and the earl looked up. As neatly cocooned as a spider’s meal an exsanguinated assassin hung upside down, face colorless in the moonlight. 

“Be sure to take that down before my lawyers arrive in the afternoon.”

The butler reached two fingers out to push the still form and it swung as a macabre pendulum. “Of course. Only you are allowed to terrorize the solicitors.”

It was nearly dawn before they decided to end the final intruder’s night of horror, and Sebastian took a seat on a stone bench, hands placed properly on his knees as he watched Ciel, Earl of Phantomhive ride the wretch down into a rosebush, thorns tearing at both their skin as they tumbled.

The man would have screamed if not for the earl shoving one of his butler’s gloves down the brigand’s throat. As it was his sobs were muffled behind fine cloth as Lord Phantomhive straddled him, his voice lilting as one of the songbirds' beginning to stir in the garden.

The demon sighed with contentment as his lord’s atrocious aria drifted over the garden.

_There was a man so wise,_  
_He jumpt into_  
_A bramble bush,  
_And scratcht out both his eyes.__

____

The demon had not considered using a teaspoon in such a manner before and chastised himself for lack of imagination as his adolescent earl scooped the brigand’s right eye from its socket and showed it to the man before carelessly tossing it over his shoulder. The orb rolled across the paving stones to nearly touch the butler’s shoe. 

_And when he saw_  
_His eyes were out,_  
_And reason to complain,_  
_He jumpt into a quickset hedge,  
_And scratcht them in again.__

____

____

“You’ve provided grand amusement tonight, my fine fellow,” his lord nearly cooed as he patted the bloody cheek of the last aspiring murderer. “I don’t believe we’ve enjoyed such sport in a while,” he added, glancing over his shoulder at the demon who inclined his head in acknowledgement of his master’s words. It truly had been an enjoyable evening, one they both much preferred to galas and fine dinners. 

“Shall I let him live, Sebastian?” the earl asked as he finally stood up, brushing carelessly at the thorny vines that attempted to snag his clothing and skin still. 

The butler tipped his head to the side and one gloved finger tapped his lower lip. “He could carry a message to his contractor of this night, and that may prove useful.”

The lord placed the bloody teaspoon on the bench and sat beside his demon, his uncovered eye narrowing as the rising sun peeked over the treetops. “True, but it may also dissuade visits from any other adventuresome souls, and that would be dull, indeed.” The smile that pulled at his lips was a ghastly as it was merry, and the demon felt he’d not seen a lovelier things in ages.

“Speaking of souls, Sebastian,” the earl flicked his head to dash long hair from his eyes. “Why not consume any of these?” He hand arced out, encompassing the whole of his estate and the half dozen bodies now at eternal rest in the grass. 

Well, aside from that one gibbering over there in the remains of the Portland rose bush.

“Would you be content to bite into a hare snatched from the vegetable garden, spit roasted on a stick with no preparation?”

“If you compare me to caviar or some such thing to extend this trite metaphor I will be insulted,” Lord Phantomhive sniffed as his fingers inspected his torn trousers and snagged shirt. 

“My apologies, my lord, but you’ve only yourself to blame for turning me into a gourmand of the highest order.” Sebastian gently batted away his master’s hands as he turned to inspect him and determine if the cloth could be saved or should simply be burned on the rubbish heap. The bare hand with the dark contract seal upon it plucked at a few loose threads in the shirt.

“Such a snob, Sebastian,” his lord chuckled mirthlessly as he looked down at where the butler turned the torn cuff of his shirt in inspection. His master's fingertips pressed into the scratches along his wrist. 

When they were lead to the demon’s pale lips, the young tyrant’s gaze fixed upon his face as his voice turned soft and thoughtful. “Water into wine, bread into body, blood into...what, Sebastian?” the young earl mused. “Does my blood carry a tinge of my soul? What flavor tempts you?” 

Ruby gaze fixed upon his master the demon’s lips slid over his lord's index finger then the middle. He was unable to suppress the shudder that raced through him and his eyes glowed in the rising rays of dawn, a blazing crimson deeper than the Agrippina roses.

The quiet moan that trickled from Sebastian's lips was most indecent. Propriety be damned, he would enjoy this generous gift from his master fully, and his tongue snaked out to lure an additional drop from a thorn prick to his master's finger.

It was a hollow imitation of the rich depth of a human’s soul, but the blood indeed carried the flavor, like catching a whiff from the kitchen of the preparation of a fine meal hours before it would be served. 

The demon’s lips tightened around his little lord’s index finger impertinently, cheeks hollowing to draw another bead to the surface.

Each dash that touched his palate was thick, rich as an esteemed vintage superbly aged in fine oak. Intoxicating as brandy, satisfying as a sumptuous buffet. Only a few drops and the demon was swaying in near stupor at the potency of his little lord’s vital fluid. What a fantastic soul that threw into kaleidoscope colors the previously listless life of the demon. He could not be faulted for becoming a connoisseur. A glutton.

“Enough you, drunkard,” his master chided, an amused lilt in his voice as fingers were prised from the demon’s grip, dragging over Sebastian’s lower lip then chin leisurely as though his master were well aware of his teasing. “Any more and you’ll embarrass yourself.” 

The Earl of Phantomhive stood and swiped his fingers on his ruined trousers, his gaze flickering to the demon briefly, observing how Sebastian’s eyes remained closed, his face upturned in silent rapture, lips parted a fraction and a sliver of smeared blood on his upper lip blotting the otherwise pristine pallor of his countenance. 

The Earl of Phantomhive had a penchant for artful aesthetic, and his black butler was a credit to his taste, an incredibly lovely loathsome creature.

Heedless of his master’s gaze, the demon spent another few moment languishing in the aftermath of his lord’s claret spilling through his ichor fouled veins. Words would never be suited to fully express the experience; only demons would ever understand. 

His master was wrapped in the shadows of this world but not consumed by them, rendering his soul dark as treacle and twice as as sweet. He may be as sugar and spice to a demon but unlike the nursery rhyme, it was not altogether pleasant to his peers. Rather than seared by hellfire flames, Lord Phantomhive’s soul instead was slow roasted by the banked embers of his own self-loathing, hating that which he at the same time relished. 

The violence he adored and mastered, the bloody, beautiful rip of tendon and muscle, all of it unleashed against the vile and foul. But was the earl, himself, vile? Indeed, it was a question the demon knew tormented his master day and night, and especially now as the sun finally crowed the trees and laced across the estate, tracing over the Earl of Phantomhive as he dispatched the last assassin by crashing the man’s skull repeatedly against the paving stones. 

As dedicated in his massacre as he was, the demon’s little lord would never slaughter the untainted innocent, vexing though they may be. With their ignorant, pitiable mewls for succor, Lord Phantomhive may disdain common men but also envied them. The simple person’s uncomplicated, moth wing delicate existence was lived quietly and in ignorance while the dark noble’s duration was and must continue to be be forged in fire and blood, the Crown’s steel sawing away at the very cancer of Britain.

When the last dash of flavor left the demon’s palate he gracefully stood, brushing a few flecks from his trousers as he moved to stand at his master’s side, both of them admiring the russet stream over the white stones in the garden that turned ever darker when the sun’s rays hit them. 

“You were right, Sebastian. That was diverting. Perhaps I’ll insult someone important soon, and they will send us some more playmates.”

“You spoil me, master.”


	5. His Master, Resplendent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My family took over my weekend and didn't allow me to post on time, curse them.
> 
> Please comment if you enjoy, it feeds my perverse fire.

5\. His Master, Resplendent

 

The last fête of the season the Earl of Phantomhive hosted would be an absolute triumph, netting a child slaver and pimp, a blackmailer, and two murderers. The attention and envy of society was captured as well, as hushed whispers of his decadent parties swept through the aristocracy, with promises this would be his most wanton and lavish yet. 

Viscounts to Marquesses to Dukes were ready to prostrate themselves, or at least send their servants to perform such duties, in order to gain invite to the next gala hosted by the decadent young noble.

Rumors abounded of sumptuous food, flavors and aromatics from foreigns lands that tempted the tongue and sated all manner of hunger. Dizzyingly delectable wines that befuddled the senses in the most sublime manner, the suffering the following day well worth the indulgence. 

Entertainments of the most exotic kind were insinuated behind silken fans and gloved hands into eager ears. Hedonistic arts performed both in full view and behind many of the heavy ornate doors of the earl’s manor by a bevy of hired talents. 

Darkly enchanting Moors whose hips moved in serpentines. 

Limber contortionists imported from the Orient whose limbs twined around guests in impossible temptations.

And above it on, on his dais, sat the Earl of Phantomhive, the specious Queen’s hound, watching over the symphony of orgiastic delights his butler conducted with elegants flits of gloved hands. His divine devil whispered edicts and entreaties into the ears of the other servants who scurried about to dine and wine, tempt and terrorize the attendees.

While all were under the sway of the erotic buffet of delicacies presented to the elite, the young lord wound his way through the party, separating his targets from the carefully crafted distractions with a surgical precision his dear, departed Jack the Ripper would envy.

Whilst red lit rooms writhed with bared and sweaty limbs of the insatiable beast that is the covert lust of Victorian high society, the opulent young royal nearly moaned in satisfaction as he ripped out the targeted pervert’s tongue. 

The man’s screams were indistinguishable from the lustful groans of the earl’s other despicable guests but a few rooms away.

An hour later the Earl of Phantomhive whistled a haunting, jaunty tune as his steps echoed down the vast hallway of the west wing on the fourth floor, far away from the bacchanal below. 

_Tick_

__

__

_Tack_

__

__

_Tick tack_

_  
_

“Oh Viscount Rennley, come out, come out wherever you are,” the earl sing songed melodiously as the point of his dragged sword scored the finely polished floor. The mar would be waxed and buffed away by the morrow, all evidence of the night before swept away as neatly as the leftovers Sebastian and Baldroy, Finnie, and Mey-rin would broom to the compost heap.

Lord Rennley would fertilize the young lord’s roses as well as the leavings of the salmagundi salad.

A noise, quiet as a breeze, caught the blueblood’s attention and he paused, lifting the tip of his sword to prod the ebony figure invisible in the alcove to his left. “Oy, Sebastian, you should be tending to downstairs. You’re not needed here.”

The demon did not flinch as the razor sharp tip pierced his chest a careless inch. “Are you certain, my little lord?”

“I did not stutter; do not feign deafness.”

Two gloved fingers plucked the sword from his breast and gently pushed it to the side. “If you would like, I could flush your prey to you. The beater to your hound.”

The laugh that tinkled down the hallways caused a rivulet of cold sweat to drip down the spine of the cowering Lord Rennley.

“I know where he is, I need not your nose to sniff him out.” The Earl of Phantomhive whistled again, an echoing, taunting tune that lured an unbidden whimper from the terrified viscount hiding in the closet of the 3rd room on the left.

“And you say I like to play with my meal,” the demon noted with amusement as his lord brushed past him with measured steps, intent on bleeding the putrid viscount slowly. 

His beatific sultan was the sanguine barber treating ill humor in the sallow patient that was England.

His atrocious raja was magnificent in his terrible justice, perfect teeth gleaming white and even through the splash of blood across his pale countenance. His finery all the more ornate when stained with the thick wine running from the villain’s veins. The earl’s breathing was barely labored by his righteous labor, his respirations only audible when he gave infrequent expirations of triumph with each artful slide of his sword.

The neatly flayed viscount, when all was done, was a macabre Rorschach upon the drawing room floor, and the demon’s eyes glowed carmine as they feasted upon his dreadful little lord standing over the remains, head tilted to one side as he studied his latest work as though to determine if one last brushstroke was required.

“What say you, Sebastian?”

Sebastian’s services were, indeed, superfluous this evening. His master was right, the demon’s specific skills and strength was not needed, not for this work tonight, perhaps not often future. 

But the butler was **wanted** , the one creature in this hateful world who would give the Earl of Phantomhive the truth, no matter what. 

Sebastian applauded politely as he stepped to his young master’s side, his eyes feasting upon grisly display that was what was left of Rennley.

“My lord,” the demon murmured, his voice husky with appreciation. “It is truly a masterpiece. Would that I could frame this, so I may see it each morning upon waking.”

“Tch, you don’t sleep,” his earl remarked as he took the fine linen kerchief from his butler to dab delicately at his cheek, before frowning and dropping the ruined cloth back into Sebastian’s hands. A towel would hardly dint the gore on his finery and skin. 

“You can’t call it a masterpiece when, in my artlessness, I covered myself in paint.” He turned to look at his butler, the earl’s chin barely rising to meet his gaze as his latest growth spurt had brought him nearly to the demon’s level.

“Draw a bath. I wish to start with a fresh canvas for the Marquess of Cholmondeley.”

“Of course, I shall start the water immediately.” The demon turned on his heel, then paused and his next words carried careful entreaty. “Might I watch you once more, my lord? I shall not disturb. I will be the quietest of mice, if you like.”

Lord Phantomhive did not pause in the wiping clean of his blade with a lightly spotted kerchief stolen from the body on the floor. “You may. But only if you promise to provide fair and honest criticism of my methods. An artist,” his appalling master turned and his ghastly smile ignited a spark of pleasure down the demon’s spine, “can only improve when his flaws are pointed out.”

Sebastian went to a knee, all fervent gratitude and not a trace of mockery in his words. “Oh, yes, my lord.” His young master truly was a resplendent monster this evening.

It was past midnight when the earl and his butler, now finished with the evening’s necessary, gruesome tasks, walked along the mezzanine overlooking the ballroom, observing the still raucous festivities below. Sebastian touched his lord’s shoulder lightly to turn him, tapping a gloved finger to his own cheek to indicate to his sovereign's dour expression and giving him a quizzical look.

Lord Phantomhive batted Sebastian’s hand away and tsked. “I’ve no reason to feign cheer. Cholmondeley was a waste of time.” Indeed the moment the villainous noble had begun the torment the fat, old Marquess suffered extreme heart palpitations and expired on the spot. While the Queen’s worry on that account had been alleviated it had been done so in a manner most unsatisfactory to the Earl of Phantomhive.

“To be sure, but the expression on his face was most amusing, was it not?” How blue his pallor had turned, how his eyes bulged! Alas, it appeared the Marquess’ premature demise had spoiled his caesar’s mood.

Despite reaching his maturity Ciel, Earl of Phantomhive could, on occasion, recall the sulky whelp he’d once been. Now was one of those times as he rested his hands on the balustrade and stared down at the ongoing debauched soiree with a perturbed expression.

“Master,” the demon murmured leaning in to speak into his little lord’s ear. To be heard over the music, of course. “You’ve accomplished a great deal tonight, it would not be untowards if you indulged in some of your own amusements. It may restore your spirits.”

The young lord didn’t speak nor move, his expression settling into something ever more dour. 

“Perhaps something to drink? Or the Moroccan dancer? She moves in the most mesmerizing ways, I assure you.” 

“Don’t be crass, Sebastian.” That his petulant despot would say such a thing while hosting an orgiastic riot amused the demon ever so, and the breath from his silky laughter puffed against the noble’s cheek. “If you’re so beguiled why don’t you go down there and find that dancer?”

The demon’s slim eyebrow arched as the snippiness of the tone. Dear, dear, his young dictator’s mood had turned quite foul. Quite the shame, they’d been having such a pleasant time earlier wrenching screams from the miscreants.

“Such enticements are lost on me, my little lord.”

“Seems to me such things would as natural as breathing to a demon.”

“Oh, but they are. However, it’s all so depressingly pedestrian compared to watching you work,” the demon said with some feeling, and he was pleased to note the tic of a muscle in his master’s cheek before the tyrant jerked his head away from the demon’s hovering mouth.

The demon spent a few minutes standing with his deplorable tyrant, staring down at the increasingly inebriated attendees when they both stiffened at the distinctive note of gratingly loud and high pitched laughter.

“Him!” Lord Phantomhive sneered.

“My, my. He wasn’t on the guest list,” the demon noted.

Lord Phantomhive turned to look at his black butler. “A party crasher then?” The earl’s mouth pulled to one side before tipping up. A smile that slowly grew until his teeth shown, and it reminded the demon of a shark. 

“It would appear so,” the demon noted lightly, his voice all innocence, waiting for the order he knew must come.

“Sebastian,” his proud imperator said, a hand raising to lay on the demon’s shoulder. “Be sure he drinks his fill, show him the very best hospitality. I’ll be in my study.” 

The demon inclined his head, his eye glowing garnet with his own eagerness, “Yes, my lord. With pleasure.”

Lord Phantomhive clapped his demon on the shoulder before brushing his past him, indeed heading for his study. The demon watched him go, a sigh sussing past his lips at the proud lift of his head, the straightness of his posture, the power in his stride, the way the young lord clapped his hands together once in a rare moment of unrestrained excitement.

Then the demon descended, all his attention focused on tracking that obnoxious laughter, until he spied the fall of pale hair, caught sight of a hand waving about ostentatiously. 

There.

The Viscount of Druitt, Aleistor Chamber.

Sebastian lifted a Venetian mask from the face of a wobbling duchess as she passed him, pressing a glass of wine into her hand in apology for absconding with her disguise. Pulling it over his eyes the demon quickly slid out of his tailcoat, slipped loose the top two buttons of his shirt, rolled up his shirt sleeves to the elbow, then grabbed two flutes of champagne before slipping up behind the odious viscount.

“Oh...oh pardon me.” Glimmering gold splashed onto the back of the Chamber’s blinding white shirt, marring it.

“Spilling champagne is a terrible crime!” the Viscounts effusive voice warbled as he stumbled from the jostling, and whipped around to snipe “As is ruining my ga- ah, hello!” The blonde noble’s light eyes raked, appreciative and blatant, over the mysterious, lithesome figure leaning into him.

The demon’s voice took on an unfamiliar, breathy tone, quite unlike his usual silky smoothness, and an equally foreign cheeky smile crinkled his cheeks below the mask. “I’m ever so sorry, I...I think I may have imbibed too freely. Please, let me-” He carelessly pushed the remaining flute into the viscount’s hands and proceeded to paw ineffectually at his shirt. 

Half an hour later the viscount was leading the handsome stranger, or rather being lead via a series of stumbling clutches interspersed with quiet laughter, up the stairs and into a dark alcove to one side of a marble bust of one the Phantomhive ancestors. There the annoying noble tipped up the last of an expensive bottle of Chateau-Chalon 1865 before plunking it on the plinth on the which the bust rested and swaying into the masked figure.

“Isn’t that better, my starling, away from such lurid public displays?” Chamber murmured into the demon’s throat, lips working feverishly down the pale column as a busy hand twisted free the last button stubbornly clinging to waistcoat.

“Yes...yes…” the demon sighed, canting his head back to allow the noble to what he would, “Privacy is....much better.” It was too easy, feign a little drunken clumsiness, transgress a few of stuffy personal boundaries of which the British are so fond, and the viscount was more than happy to separate himself from the party. And the imbecile thought it was all his idea.

To be fair, given how the viscount’s lips worked over the demon’s neck, his tongue tracing over the edge of the mask, the scandalous suggestions whispered into the shell of the butler’s ear, this wasn’t the first time Chamber rollicked with another male guest in one of his host’s antechambers.

Twice Sebastian found his back against a door and the hand pretending to fish about blindly behind him for egress closed on the doorknob and crushed it to prevent them from slipping into the billiard room or the library.

“Curse the myopic brat,” Chamber murmured as deft fingers slipped up the butler’s shirt to trace over the ripple of his ribs. “One would think he didn’t want company, all these locked doors.”

When they finally stumbled into the study it was dark, though that was nothing to the demon, whose gaze easily skittered over the room and located the chaise, against which he easily backed the viscount.

“Ah! Careful, do not manhandle me,” the noble sniffed even as he collapsed into the velvet cushions and immediately hooked an ankle around the back of the butler’s thigh. “...or do, as long as you handle me well.” The noble’s hand crudely grabbed the demon’s and pushed it against the front of his breeches. 

The black butler’s smile was slow and curling as his fingers traced the hard shape of the dislikable noble. He was well aware they were being observed, after all his master did say he would be in his study. 

Though the order had not be explicit, the days of teasing his master with reminders his commands must be ever so detailed in order to gain the result he desired were long past. The demon knew exactly what Lord Phantomhive desired and brought Chamber to him.

Of course, if his master was in no hurry to reveal himself the demon would simply carry on; after all, he was expected to show the very best hospitality, and Phantomhive servants never shirked their duties. With that in mind, the demon swayed into the tipsy noble, murmuring assent into his ear as his fingers deftly worked breech buttons loose and dipped inside. 

Ah, just as the demon suspected, the Viscount of Druitt was just as disagreeably average here as in all other aspects of his irritating existence.

Chamber sighed happily, casting his arms around the demon’s neck and nuzzling into his jaw, cooing ridiculous endearments with each feather light touch. Thin, wine stained lips landed just below the mask and smeared over the demon’s cheek. “My mysterious raven...how flighty you are. A touch softer, would you?”

Sebastian’s stroke gentled even further, until his loose fist glided so lightly as to practically be pointless over the viscount’s length. Ruby eyes flicked to the side, glimmering at the darker shadow leaning in the far corner. 

Perhaps the Earl of Phantomhive decided to be generous and allow the insufferable noble a last few minutes of enjoyment before his existence was entirely ruined. 

The demon knew that was as likely as swine were to fly.

Black nailed fingers spidered up the pale noble’s torso to wind in pale hair, stroking through it slowly, and Chamber nearly mewled in pleasure. What a ridiculous man, such touches were as cobwebs, barely felt. How one could possibly derive any satisfaction from such hesitant contact was beyond the demon. Humans were utterly ridiculous sometimes, as was the high pitched moan from the viscount when the demon nosed open his shirt collar and his mouth began a leisurely sojourn downward, ruby eyes still latched onto the dark figure in the corner.

The soul of the pathetic aristocrat inelegantly thrusting into Sebastian’s hand held no temptation for the demon, the taste of it uncomplicated and dull, a touch sour from imbecility. But he wouldn’t turn down a freely given offer to defile a smooth, pampered body. Especially not with such an audience. If his master wished to observe, or simply bide his time for the perfect moment to reveal himself in order to cause Chamber the maximum amount of discomfort, Sebastian would be more than happy to fill the time. It had been a while since he’d taken a man.

Long fingers quickly unbuttoned the Viscount’s shirt, pushing it over smooth shoulders as the noble continued to babble idiotic compliments. “There...there my enigmatic swift...how lovely.” 

The demon’s gaze skewed back to the simpleton beneath him and Sebastian smiled beatifically down at Chamber as he lowered more of his weight onto the noble, hips pushing insistently against him until the viscount’s legs fell open in graceless sprawl. The demon’s tongue slicked out slowly and trailed over his upper lip, eyes glinting with malevolent humor as the noble’s own gaze widened, pale orbs fastidiously following the track of it before the Chamber’s neck arched, his mouth rising in an effort to capture the demon’s.

“My god, even the way you make love is obnoxious.”

The Viscount of Druitt froze, his eyes going even wider than before, as the Earl of Phantomhive appeared over the black butler’s shoulder.

“...L-Lord Phantomhive!” Chamber endeavored to get up, though the effort was fruitless given the solid shove he was give by a hand planted firmly on his chest. Sebastian’s other hand quickly turned into a vice-like grip about Chamber’s most sensitive of organs. 

“I..I...we...lovely gala!” The viscount winced, due to both the embarrassingly frantic tone of his voice and the discomfort being wrought in his nether regions by an unrelenting grasp. 

The earl cheekily propped an elbow on the demon’s back, his chin resting in his hand as he peered down at the anxious noble. “Lord Chamber, I do not recall issuing you an invite.”

The Viscount squirmed, hands coming down in a futile attempt to cover himself and prise Sebastian’s fingers from his member. “Ah...ouch! Surely I didn’t i-imagine...oh let go!- imagine the invitation...such q-quality-AH- stock and gilding…” He trailed off as his eyes darted from the earl to the masked figured looming over him, who hadn’t budged an inch and didn’t seem at all perturbed by the interruption. The slow dawn of recognition finally stole over his insipid face. “Oh, god.”

“Not quite,” Sebastian replied with a disarming smile, a finger flicking up to knock the mask over his head. 

The earl of Phantomhive tsked, “You arrive unannounced and run your filthy hands all over my possessions.” Lord Phantomhive’s fingers alighted on the demon’s head and patronizingly ruffled the strands there. Sebastian would have protested the gesture, but the entire scene was wildly amusing. “Your gall knows no bounds.”

“Y-your posses-” The Viscount’s pale countenance went entirely bloodless as he watched Lord Phantomhive’s hand stroke down the side of the butler’s face, an incredibly intimate gesture. “I was un-unaware-ouch! Damn it all! - of course an earl is w-welcome to -AH! EE!- I myself have -not so hard!- been known to indulge the help.. Ouch! Release me!”

“Not that I blame you,” Lord Phantomhive said loftily, “He is a comely creature, is he not?” The earl’s knuckles stroked Sebastian’s cheek again and the demon, thoroughly enrolling his role in this comedy, nudged his face into the touch, eyes fluttering closed. “And so obedient, too. Truly, one of a kind, don’t you agree?”

The Viscount of Druitt looked absolutely torn, uncertain if he should agree with the young earl’s assessment of the gorgeous, menacing manservant whose grip on his privates was increasingly torturous, or if he was expected to dispute it. “I...I....L-lord Phantomhive...I…”

“Of course, an ungracious dilettante like you would think nothing of barging into my manor and helping yourself to my hospitality,” the earl interrupted, continuing to stroke his butler’s head patronizingly as he sneered down at the squirming noble. “Sebastian, what should we do with him?”

The black butler’s fingers curled tighters and wrung an embarrassingly loud yelp from Chamber. “Master, he has given you great insult, it would not be beyond reason to request **full** satisfaction.” The butler dared to lean away from his earl’s petting to loop out his tongue and lave it sloppily over the viscount’s cheek, causing the man under him to whimper most piteously.

“Hm, you have a point,” Lord Phantomhive demurred before his fingers slithered down to wind under the demon’s chin and prompt him to lift his head from Chamber’s pathetic form. Sebastian went easily with that touch, reeling back until once again those fingers were stroking rhythimcally along his jaw.

“Y-you’ve no warrant from the Queen for me!” the Viscount of Druitt shouted, both hands coming up to shove at the butler’s chest, to no avail. The demon was as inviolate as stone. Chamber’s expression morphed from cowering to one flushed with ire, despite the still painful grip on his nethers. “I’ve too many connections! You don’t dare!”

“He has a point, my lord,” the demon admitted, one eyebrow arched.

The Earl of Phantomhive leaned fully into his demon’s back, playfully draping arms over butler’s frame and leering down at the pinned noble over Sebastian’s shoulder. “Oh, but I want to kill him, Sebastian, ever so much.”

The demon’s expression morphed into one of near giddiness at the desperation in his lord’s voice. “I know, but perhaps you could keep him in a cage instead.”

“Yesssss,” the earl practically moaned, his dangling fingers mere inches from Chamber’s face, and the viscount quailed from the threat of contact. “We could play with him as much as we wish.”

“Parts of him could be sold,” the demon said lightly, giving the noble’s privates another brutal clench that had the Viscount of Druitt dry heaving in agony even as his pale eyes grew ever wider. 

Words spoken years ago when the insufferable noble attempted to sell the little lord into the most unspeakable enslavement rebounded upon him.

“N-no...no! I did not know! Lord Phantomhive, mercy! Mercy!”

“Sebastian,” the young earl murmured his mouth dipping low to hover by his butler’s ear. “What is this word? I know not this mercy of which he speaks.”

The demon’s eyes slid closed in elation at just how well his master played this game, how joyously he partook in teasing and tormenting the wretched viscount. “I believe he asks you spare his life. It would be a noble gesture, one befitting your station, my lord.”

“But Sebastian,” Lord Phantomhive murmured silkily and something in the demon thrilled at the intimacy in his tone, the way his lips brushed the demon’s ear, the horrific poetry he spoke into it. “I want to paint the walls of the study with his entrails. Use his already empty skull for a soup pot.”

Lord Phantomhive’s words had the intended effect and threw the Viscount of Druitt into an absolute panic. Heedless of the excruciating iron grip the butler still held on his nethers, the noble thrashed and struck out, fist colliding ineffectively with the demon’s jaw, fingers pulling pointlessly at hair, snatching at and failing to connect with the young earl. 

“Vile imp! What despicable things you say! Release me and I’ll not inform the Queen, you little demon!”

The burst of laughter from the young earl was immediately joined by the demon’s chuckles as Lord Phantomhive nearly collapsed on the demon’s back in mirth. The near hysterical tenor of it had the already terrorized pale noble shrinking back into the chaise, as though he would make himself small enough and they would cease to notice him.

“Ah, Druitt, you are good for one last laugh,” Lord Phantomhive gasped into the back of the demon’s neck before he finally lifted his head, little sniggers still leaking out of him. The earl pushed his fingers up his face, raking cobalt hair back and taking his eyepatch with it.

“I’m not a demon, Chamber.” The earl leaned down and pressed his cheek alongside his butler’s, both of them now leering obscenely down at him. “But I do keep one on retainer.”

When the earl’s marred eye flashed violent the Viscount Druitt flinched at the unnatural light. When the eyes of the butler looming over him blazed with hellfire he began to panic. And when the inky swirl of darkness lashed out from the figures over him and the butler’s lips that had been only minutes before slipping softly over the viscount’s skin peeled back to reveal serrated horrors Chamber started to scream.

“Didn’t I tell you he was a comely creature? Look at him, Aleistor, isn’t he magnificent?!” The mad joy in the Earl of Phantomhive’s voice was the last rational thing the Viscount of Druitt ever comprehended.

It was only Chamber’s vaunted connections to the Crown that prevented him from being hidden away in the asylum after that night. Instead he was clapped up at his estate by distant relations who raided it for its wealth and left him in an increasingly decrepit manor under the care of unfeeling, weary nurses. Every few months or years, at irregular intervals, Sebastian would pay visit simply to ensure the man’s mind never regained reason, that the only word he ever spoke again was “demon” shrieked at the top of his pathetic voice.


	6. His Master, Penitent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Comment please, if this work pleases you. Feedback fuels my perverse fire!

Earl Phantomhive reclined in the large leather chair at his desk in the drawing room, silken stockings whispering as he crossed his legs. “I am exceptionally displeased, Sebastian. Aggrieved even.”

“Yes, my lord.” The demon’s face was a death mask, blank as a slate.

“While I do not require your demonic strengths for my personal protection any longer-” the twenty year old noble’s voice had settled in its maturity to a rich depth, smooth and enticing as the Da Hong Pao tea he sipped, “-a Phantomhive butler worth his salt would never allow an assassin to penetrate into the manor itself, much less leave her at her leisure to strike poor Finnie with that poisoned dart.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“He gashed his head upon the marble pedestal in the east corridor of the Nymph of Lyra as he blundered about. If that blood does not come out of the stone it will next to worthless.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You know his crying aggravates my nerves. They have only just recovered from Lady Elizabeth’s visit.” The earl placed the cup back in its saucer, a displeased frown disgracing his visage. The young lord was no longer a pretty wee thing, eyes too big for his deceptively cherubic face, all gamine delicacy and small fists beating against the unfairness of the world. 

“Yes, my lord.”

Ciel, Earl of Phantomhive was grown into a comely man nearly 2 inches over his butler. His lithe frame belied the raw strength lurking beneath the ostentatious regalia he so adored. Long, well shaped legs, now crossed delicately at the knee, kicked the First Lord of the Royal Treasury, an embezzler, nearly to death not four days earlier before permitting his butler to dump the battered man on the doorstep of Downing Street. 

Cobalt tresses reached past his shoulders when not tied back with a ribbon carefully selected to match his tailcoat. Today the young lord was clad in white but for flattering wisps of blue ribbon gathered at the belled cuffs of his blouse and the knees of his knickerbockers. 

No angel could ever aspire to look more celestial than his young master did to the demon at that moment as the earl leaned forward, fingers steepled under his pointed chin. 

“And you claim you are one hell of a butler,” his regent sneered. “I am irrevocably disappointed in you, Sebastian. Finnie is hopeless until his eyesight recovers; therefore, you will take over the grounds until he is fit again.”

Even as the demon ducked his head in a show of contrition the black void that might have passed for his spirit thrilled at the arrogant displeasure in his earl’s voice. He parted his lips to agree once more, as it truly was an abysmal failure on his part to allow such a thing to occur in his lord’s lands.

“And if you say ‘yes, my lord’ once more I will use this letter opened to carve your impudent tongue from your mouth,” his terrible imperator promised, solemn as a wedding vow as his left hand plucked up said instrument from his writing desk. His lord looked well and truly vexed, albeit none but the demon knew the subtle shift of his features so well as to detect it. To any other eye the Earl of Phantomhive was stoic as stone.

The demon raised his hand to place it over his chest in silent acknowledgement of his master’s command.

“Reckless demon,” the earl chided with a sigh as his fingers moved to dance across the desk, plucking through the tray of fresh fruits brought to him for a mid-morning snack as he reviewed his ledgers. “After all these years you’ve become complacent, lax. And now Finnie and my marble pay for your inattention.” 

Lord Phantomhive appeared to dither over his selection, all the while leveling the black butler with his flattest look. “You’re fortunate my Lady departed for Marseille yesterday; you know how she dotes the boy and would be inconsolable, were she aware.” 

The demon inwardly flinched; yes, Lady Elizabeth would have expressed her displeasure at top volume for a sustained time. Grown though she was, she was as sensitive and empathetic as she’d ever been as a child. Her goodness was a cheery balm over the grim Phantomhive estate during her visits; thankfully, it was generally a short-lived one. 

The earl selected a slice of melon, the flesh a succulent pink, and inhaled to enjoy the syrupy fragrance a moment before placing the slice on his tongue, chewing slowly as he stared the demon down. 

Neither blinked for the longest while, then the earl spoke again. 

“Somehow, I have managed to spoil a demon. What a remarkable feat.” He gusted out a sigh and slid from behind the desk with a lissome ease. “Tend to Finnie. Give him whatever he asks to soothe him, within reason. I’ll not have another of my servants so ruined by permissiveness. Clean that statue until not a spot can be seen. Then come to me and accept your punishment.”

Sebastian barely resisted the “yes, my lord” that sprang to his lips, but his mouth pressed closed in time to trap the instinctive phrase before it was let loose and damned him further. 

It was well after dark before the demon accomplished his tasks. He nearly decided to simply carve an exact facsimile of the Nympha of Lyra, the blood was so damned stubborn; but in the end victory was his, as ever.

Except now. 

Now he would accept punishment for his grievous failure. He followed the exquisite thread of spider silk that tethered him to his lord and found himself at the entrance to the music room on the second floor. He held silent and still in the doorway as he watched his master practice on the piano forte, nimble fingers fluttering as hummingbirds over the keys.

Such an apassionata flowed from those hands, the young noble as commanding over the music as he was over his own body, his demon, the whole of his realm. All that fell under the touch of the Earl of Phantomhive was his entirely and could never be wrested from his grasp by another.

As was Sebastian. 

As each year flew by, another wink in the endless existence of the demon, he was further and deeper bound to his master, his slave. The demon’s pale face ever turning, as a corrupt sunflower, to the shifting arc of of his young lord’s dark incandescence. 

The Earl of Phantomhive was luminous and awful to behold, in one. 

With his personal vengeance long ago satisfied, now Sebastian’s resplendent dictator was set upon wrecking retribution on every ill in the world that crossed his gaze. 

The bloody rose of England had burst into full bloom under Sebastian’s watchful, enchanted gaze, with what felt like barely a prod from the demon. As each petal unfurled in slow, annual succession a new near-god of righteous wrath emerged, descending into the cesspool of England’s underbelly and washing it clean with his precise, deadly hands, fingers constricting to choke the very life out of every foul deed.

And yet, villainy was as water or sand, sieving ever faster through the young lord’s fierce grip the tighter he clutched. Thus his quest was never ending, his self-set task Sisyphean. Each time the boulder tumbled the Earl of Phantomhive became more malevolent and more scrupulous. 

To what heights would his magnificent lordling eventually soar? To what depths would he plunge?

As young as his master was the noble had become so incandescent in his wrathful indignation at the malignancy festering in Britain the demon sometimes thought that if he gazed too fully and too long upon his tyrant his eyes might burn out. 

That his lord’s destructive potential may, indeed, be limitless gratified Sebastian ever so.

The appassionata ended with a flourish, as if anything else would satisfy Lord Phantomhive. At last the dual gaze of a cobalt eye and violet orb landed on the demon in the doorway.

“Enter and lock the door behind you. Not a word unless I explicitly command it, demon.”

Twenty minutes later the butler’s fingers finally curved on the polished surface of the piano forte, black nails scoring the lacquer there. At his side his young lord chuckled and the leather crop that had scored his bare back tickled along the demon’s side, then along the soft skin under one long arm.

“A flinch then? And all it took was 40 stripes. It is utterly disheartening how soft you have become, Sebastian.” 

The crop flicked under the demon’s chin. Damp leather stroked up his cheek then feathered over his sweat dotted lip before striking harshly under one garnet eye. The gasp that slipped loose from the demon had not been given permission, not by the butler nor his earl. 

He paid for it as his tyrant placed the crop down on the musical instrument in front of him and picked up the whip.

“Not another sound, Sebastian, or I may never recover from this bitter pill you have forced upon me.” 

What a elegant snare his master laid out before him, holding his demon fast with only words, entreating him in the most cruel way to serve him better still. And to bear it all in silence until his pasha returned his voice.

While Sebastian could not speak, not even exhale too harshly, he spoke to his earl fluently in the way his spine arched under the first lash of the whip then bowed to offer itself up for a second strike. 

The demon’s head canted back when the next blow came, and his skin parted as though a seam in him were rent. His hips jutted forward, bumping the solid, cool wood of his master’s instrument on the third lashing. A white sear of ambrosial pain lanced the small of the demon’s back and he shivered, enraptured.

After a half dozen strokes his little lord paused, and the demon’s head dropped down between his shoulders as he attempted to catch his stumbling breath. What wonderful barbarism his master favored him with; the demon nearly felt dizzy with it, and he knew it had barely begun.

The blunt end of the whip handle skirted down his bloodied spine none-too-gently. “I know you’ll heal from this overnight if I give you leave to do so,” the young earl‘s smooth voice poured into his ear, sugar laced breath puffing near the demon’s temple.

“And I give it...but, Sebastian,” smooth fingertips feathered under his chin, a mockery of a touch so many years ago when the demon altered their contract, “It would please me if you did not.”

The demon’s ruby eyes slid closed in ecstasy at the command and request in one. This was his lord’s savagery, and it was more glorious than he’d dared dream would come to fruition when he first contracted with the furious little beast. The demon’s chin tipped up at the slight pressure of his lord’s touch stroking along his jaw.

“Would that I could break this elegant neck, this pale pillar,” his young master murmured. “Perhaps one day I shall learn the skill to accomplish it in totality and be the one to feast.” Cool fingers traced over the imitation of a pulse that quickened under the demon’s skin at the caress. 

The demon nearly moaned at the threat, the far off promise, but it was contained within him, as were all things his master desired. 

“Of course,” his lord’s voice lightened as he casually backhanded the demon’s smooth cheek and stepped behind him once more, “If you wish otherwise you know how to end this, Sebastian.” 

The demon shuddered at the knowledge that even now, when his lavish monarch was at his prime, could bring the whole of the Empire down to burn at his feet with a few well placed missives and bodies, his lord still courted his own destruction and desired it at his butler’s hand most ardently.

Another murderer would simply not do. It would be beneath his lord. In the end it must be his demon or none at all.

The whip cracked and the sound was as lovely as the pitched groans of the nun the demon had once defiled. The hot score of agony gratified the black butler more than any lover’s touch, and his hips canted forward once more, pressing to the immoveable side of his lord’s piano forte.

When his master determined his butler’s back had been arranged into a suitable tapestry of dangling, wet ribbons the earl’s fingers slipped into the waist of the demon’s trousers and yanked them down as well. 

The stripping thrilled the demon, but to be thus exposed before his lord had naught to do with nudity; the demon had no compunction regarding his bared from. He was well made, as Lord Phantomhive wished. No, it was that he not only allowed this human to strip him down to raw sensation, it was that he **craved** it and only at the Earl of Phantomhive’s hand would he be sated. No other being in the demon’s long existence had ever prompted in Sebastian the blazing desire to entrench himself into physical experience, to fully allow himself to feel every touch, every insult, every lash, to marvel and moan over the artful canvas of anguish into which his body was twisted.

The thin tip of the whip was traced over the swell of his buttocks, down the length of one thigh to tease the back of a knee.

“What horrors dwell within such a handsome form,” the young lord murmured then chuckled when his butler’s red gaze flitted to him. They shared a little smile, well aware such a wretched compliment described Lord Phantomhive just as perfectly. 

Then the earl stepped back, and the whip flashed again. This time a perfect line of pain blazed alongside Sebastian’s temple, wrapping around his forehead masterfully and flaying the thin skin there. The dark ichor in his veins spilled into his eyes and nearly blinded him. 

What exquisite control his master had developed! A fraction of an inch and the demon would have lost an eye. Sebastian shivered at the thought and pressed his hips harder against the edge of the piano forte.

“I know you let that assassin pass purposefully, Sebastian. You wanted to see what I would do. I expect you even knew what would happen to Finnie, callous beast.” The whip lashed out again and the butler’s leg nearly gave out under him when one hamstring was nearly cut through by the expert swing. 

“Taunt and tease me all you like, but that boy does not suffer more because you wish to conduct an experiment!” 

Here...here was what the demon has sought at the end of his machinations this day. 

This blazing self-righteous rage, this sweet sadism for the sake of another’s injury. His earl’s fury fully realized and let loose, and this time no ignoble criminal would be the recipient of such wondrous ire, but the demon himself.

This was Sebastian’s bread and wine, and he did not bother to stifle the groan of ecstasy that burst from pale lips as his young lord redoubled his efforts with the whip.

Lord Phantomhive’s melodious, cruel laughter answered the demon’s groan. “I bade you silent, Sebastian, and you fail me again. How willful!” The next lash scored open the demon’s bicep, and he went down to his elbows on the instrument. The demon’s flushed face pressed against the cool lacquer casement when the whip landed again. He would remain here, accepting the spill of his master’s displeasure all night if that was required, and do so joyously. 

He’d watched his master contort villains and all manner of despicable men into fanciful abstractions, bold strokes of crimson splashed over paving stones and priceless rugs, silken wallpaper and London sewers. He could only hope his tyrant’s arm would not tire until he remade the demon into a new masterpiece. 

On it went until the world was muted and all that remained was the drag of wet leather cord over the floor.

His master’s inhalation as his arm raised.

The bullet snap of rawhide.

The dreamy drag of it through skin and muscle.

The hot slide of vital fluid streaking Sebastian’s back.

Runnels and rivers down his legs.

The rustle of air forced out of the demon with each strike.

Sebastian’s long, limitless existence narrowed down to the uncertain moment between one whip strike and the next.

_Would there be another?_

__

_Would this be the last?_

The demon contentedly floated in the uncertainty, neither expecting nor anticipating, only aware he would estatically take whatever his master deigned to give him.

One pointed shoe kicked Sebastian’s good leg, the one barely holding up his weight, from under him, and the demon collapsed as though strings holding him in this moment were cut.

He fell as an abandoned doll untidily to the floor, spent and panting. How long had it been since the last strike? Since the first? Since that moment when he’d first clapped unholy eyes on a caged and bleeding wretch of a child? Since he’d become both servant and master?

Time lost its meaning and Sebastian did not mourn the hated thing as only now, only the present, mattered. Only the fire lancing his skin, bleeding from his veins, only the heat in his master’s gaze as he looked down at the demon on the floor. 

The black butler was in a state no respectable butler should ever be before their lord, and yet he made no effort to collect himself. The Earl of Phantomhive said it would please him so if Sebastian did not mend himself. The demon hoped mightily his tyrant was pleased beyond measure with the sight before him.

His lord stood over him, the white of his finery speckled with black blood and Sebastian thought of baptismal fonts and christenings.

Oh, what a sweet blasphemy it all was. 

The earl crouched, and cool fingers smoothed back the sweat and blood slicked fall of inky hair from the demon’s face. “You said once letting me live was your brutality. How does it feel to have it turned on you?”

Sebastian turned his face into that cruel palm, pale lips caressing his lordling’s lifeline as he panted, “Transcendent.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

The following morning the Earl of Phantomhive blinked at the morning sun streaming over his pillow and frowned at the soft sound of feet on the rug. That was not the silent slip of his black butler, and it was only skilled reflexes that prevented the young lord’s blade kept under his pillow from piercing Tanaka’s breast when the elder butler failed to turn away in time.

“...Tanaka. Why are you here?” The earl did not intend to inquire so sternly, but he was a creature of some habits, and this was a disagreeable break in them.

“Sir, I will tend to this morning’s ablutions. The tea is Conguo and-”

“Where is Sebastian?” The young lord threw back the cover and swung his legs over the side of the bed, accepting the cup the elder butler presented.

“I thought he would appreciate additional rest, my lord.”

The Earl of Phantomhive’s eyes narrowed over the rim of the delicate china cup, but he took his time sipping the tea and nodding his satisfaction at the steep before handing it back to the old manservant. “I see. And did he request such condescension?”

“No, he did not,” a smooth voice said from the doorway. Both the earl and the elder butler turned to see the demon standing just inside the entryway. Only one who knew the butler as well as the Earl of Phantomhive would have spotted the unusual rigidity with which he held himself. 

Tanaka gently placed the earl’s cup back on the tray and favored the younger butler with a bland expression. “I see I was incorrect to presume you would be unable to perform your duties today.” Tanaka turned and gave his lord a half-bow. “My apologies for the error, sir.”

The young despot took a few moments to regard his father’s former butler with a critical eye, weighing his response before he decided to be generous. “It was well-intentioned, old man.” 

Tanaka bowed once more then excused himself, pausing only to peer up at the black butler when they met in the doorway, an assessing look in his still clear gaze. Finding nothing excessively wanting, aside for the scabbing defect along Sabastian’s temple, the two traded small nods before the demon strode forward to re-arrange the tea tray to his exact particulars and freshened his lord’s cup before moving to make the bed once the earl rose from it.

Lord Phantomhive took a seat at his vanity and watched the demon move behind him in the mirror, violet orb and blue gaze watching the subtle slowness of his motions, the slight hesitation as he bent over to fluff a pillow before replacing it among its fellows.

The earl continued to regard the demon as he moved about the room, pulling out a few selections for the day’s attire, when elegant gloves fingers slid into his periphery as the silk eyepatch was gently tied into place and his hair finger combed over the strings, the lean dark figure standing behind his lord to fasten his hair back with a carmine ribbon.

He accepted the freshly pressed paper and perused it as they walked the halls down to the study where the earl received the demon’s usual impeccable service for breakfast. Once the dishes were cleared Lord Phantomhive dismissed Sebastian with a careless wave to begin his chores for the day as the earl continued to review the news and the slim stack of urgent letters placed at his elbow. 

It was only when the butler’s finger alighted on the door handle that the earl spoke one last time, “Don’t forget the grounds. And bring Finnie breakfast as well, he deserves a lie-in.”

The butler glanced over his shoulder with a little smile, eye glinting crimson at his master’s...thoughtfulness. “Yes, my lord. At once.”

For the duration of the day the demon neither demurred nor exaggerated the discomfort his body experienced; rather, he dedicated a substantial amount of attention to it as he supervised Baldroy’s preparation of lunch, Mey-rin’s beating of the billiard room rugs, and Finnie’s plaintive request that even if he could not be of use he would be ever so appreciative if he could but go outside.

The young gardener promised he would sit on a bench and be content with just that, if only Sebastian did not make him stay indoors in the dark. Of course, the butler offered his elbow to lead the young gardener outside and deposited him in the open greenhouse with a snack and the admonition someone would collect him in 2 hours and to please not attempt to return to the manor on his own. Finnie’s reddened eyes turned gratefully in the butler’s direction as he promised he would not budge.

As the black butler worked that day he was unflinchingly aware the way each movement pulled at his skin. Every careful lean prompted a burn in his muscles that carried no actual heat. When he raised his arms to pull down a pot for the chef his shirt scraped against his lash marks, and the exposed nerves sparked. Kneeling to pull at weeds the wool of his trousers stuck to the tacky blood drying against the back of his thighs, and the throb in each sinew and fiber was omnipresent .

The demon had never allowed himself to sustain injury for so long before, much less indulged in the seemingly endless variety of sensations that accompanied it. Every moment was another reminder of just how exquisitely the Earl of Phantomhive had abused him.

It was illuminating, exhilarating, intoxicating and by the dinner hour Sebastian was hard pressed to maintain his usual calm veneer before his Lord. He dared not check his pocketwatch as he stood at the side of the earl’s chair as he dined, but the demon was nearly to the point of counting down the minutes until he would be relieved of his duties for the day and could return to his chambers to relieve himself of the pressing arousal that simmered under his skin. His skin felt too tight, as though each throb of what passed for the beating heart in his chest might push apart every seam in him his young master had not already torn asunder.

Alas, it appeared his young dictator was not quite done with his services for the day and, after dessert, bade the demon follow him to the library. Lord Phantomhive gracefully seated himself in a large chair before the fireplace and peered up at his butler for a while, one fingertip to his chin, a thoughtful look on his refined face. Sebastian stood implacable, hands folded behind his back, posture as straight as ever and met his gaze just as boldly as he waited out the inspection.

“Show me,” the Earl of Phantomhive eventually commanded.

No more was needed, as the demon understood his master perfectly, and gloved hands rose to peel off the long black tailcoat, folding it neatly over the arm of the adjacent couch. Next the sooty waistcoat was unbuttoned and joined it, followed by the not-quite white shirt. The demon offered no apology for the stains to the back of it, mottled rust and yellow from blood and plasma that seeped from his skin all day. 

Lord Phantomhive beckoned him closer with a languid crook of his fingers and the demon easily went, bending a knee before him and curling forward to press one hand to floor and allow his malicious ruler full view of his handiwork. 

Cool fingers alighted on the demon’s head then slid to the side, skimming the edge of the fine whip mark that scored his temple before disappearing into his hair.

Sebastian’s eyes closed as his young lord’s fingers lightly slipped down the back of his neck, skirting along the few unbroken inches of his shoulders, gliding alongside a welt from the crop, then between two magnificently centered whip lashes on either side of his spine.

“Did you take any lesson from this, Sabastian? Or do you intend to have Mey-rin throttled in order to gain my attention next?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Tch,” the earl sneered. “Evasive as ever. And what lesson is it then?”

“If I desire something from my lord I should request it plain and not conduct such schemes again.”

The fingers idly tracing the ragged edge of a lashing continued their slow sojourn along the demon’s bare shoulder. “And what was it you should have requested, Sebastian, rather than mauling Finnie in a puerile attempt to goad me to it?”

The black butler lifted his head to rest his eyes upon his master’s cultivated features. He did not respond, not with words, but leaned into his master’s touch further until that refined hand now rested over one the deepest of his injuries, where the whip had nearly cut clean through to the blade of his shoulder. 

Where his master had carved pain so deliciously deep into him it seeped into the ichor of Sebastian’s veins and streamed through the demon’s body, coursing to every inch of his pale, lean frame. When his lord’s hand remained there and did not pull away in disgust the demon’s sighed and, his eyes slipped closed.

“Impertinent demon,” the Earl of Phantomhive chided quietly and there was a whisper of movement, a fleeting brush of faille silk grazing Sebastian’s chin, before a touch alighted on his head, prompting it to lower. The demon’s cheek landed on the smooth plane of his young master’s leg, and fingers sifted into the fall of inky hair. “Perhaps next time I should dash holy water into your face. You may not enjoy that quite as well as the whip.”

Sebastian couldn’t help the little chuckle that escaped him at that suggestion. His ear received a pinch in retribution before the the fingers in his hair resumed their subtle motion. “I am pleased with how you comported yourself today, Sebastian. If you desire to heal yourself you may.”

“Thank you, master,” the demon responded quietly, but he made no effort to move, not to repair his injuries nor remove his cheek from his master’s lap. Even when the fire burned low and the butler should have risen to stoke it once more he remained there, on his knees before his lord, kept firmly in place by nothing but slim fingers upon his head and his young master’s condescension.

If the butler elected not to heal himself for several days after that, so that he might hold fast to this intoxicating experience a while longer, quietly revel in slow simmer of arousal his master’s marks prompted in him...well, no one else need know.


	7. His Master, Enticing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gotten a little away from the 3 days update schedule since I'm working on another story and 4 cosplay projects at the same time.
> 
> I'm building Undertaker from Book of Atlantic for Animazement, gotta have that death scythe. ^.^
> 
> Also, I'm sorry Lizzie, your turn in BoA was incredible and made me so enamoured of the character, but it didn't fit with this story.
> 
> Comment if you enjoy, it encourages me so much!

Sebastian was a demon and a long lived one at that. He’d born witness to the rise and contributed to the fall of civilizations and individuals both. He’d seen a great deal and was no fool.

And yet his wondrous caliph still managed to surprise him.

“Lady Phantomhive is with child, at last,” the lord announced to the ecstasy of the staff, his arm around his wife, the smile on his face not quite as contrived as every other one he gave her; Lady Phantomhive accepted it as true, as she did all of them

The earl had done his duty and wed Elizabeth Midford when he turned 21, as was expected. He was, as ever, fastidiously polite to her, nearly to a fault, and indulged her fancy as much as possible, given that her fancy was to travel with her ladies’ maid and parents frequently to the Continent and pout that her husband’s business kept him in England. 

When she was in country he bedded her with the regularity of a clock marking a fortnight and no more. She was his cousin and his wife and, as such, he held a cool facsimile of affection for her as befitting their station. She was an inoffensive and sweet woman; it was not her fault her husband was so skilled at deception she held no knowledge of the true beast she’d wed.

To feign doting on her during her brief visits to their estate was little hardship to Lord Phantomhive. She had been a kind, if somewhat shallowly preoccupied, girl and had become moreso as a woman. Kind and ignorant. The best sort of wife for a man such as he.

That the Earl of Phantomhive had undergone a procedure upon maturation that would ensure another child would never carry the cursed Phantomhive bloodline was known only to the butler. Sebastian spared only a sly glance at his master before politely expressing wonder and delight over mistress, promising a nursery like none other at each of their estates and of course in both the Midford and Phantomhive residences in London.

Lady Phantomhive was welcome to her secrets as much as any of them. It wasn’t as though the earl was unaware of his wife’s dalliances, given how infrequently they shared a roof, much less a bed. He’d even encouraged dear Finnie to satisfy the lady one visit when Elizabeth had been in a fine temper over her lord’s impending departure on Crown business to Edinburgh not one day after her return from Barcelona. 

The gardner had blushed and stammered but taken up the request and reported via post a few days after the earl and his butler arrived in Edinburgh that Lady Phantomhive had departed the manor in a splendid mood for a sojourn to Bath with her parents and brother. The gardner had performed his duty well and, apparently, quite vigorously as the letter promised the lady’s chambers would be repaired by the time the Earl of Phantomhive returned. Bless the unnatural lad.

Excellent, a child would indeed make Lady Phantomhive happy and also make it less likely she would visit, as her preference for the family estate over her husband’s was always clear. His aesthetics were too gloomy for her sunny disposition and style.

Within the week after the announcement she was safely ensconced at Midford manor and already complaining she could not be moved about in her delicacy. Lord Phantomhive made all appropriate clucking noises and consolations then traversed back to his own estate with an almost pleasant demeanor.

“I shall be a father, even if the whelp does not share my blood. Perhaps he will have an insignificant life, full of frippery and folly, and die in a tedious way. That is best I can hope for any Phantomhive brat,” the earl said blithely as he leaned to line up his cue over the snooker table as his butler murmured assent. 

He’d no intention of passing down the title of Guard Dog to his heir; that duty would terminate for the Phantomhive bloodline upon the demon’s consumption of his soul one day. The Crown and the Yard could hang themselves and burden some other family with the duty, hopefully one the earl loathed.

“This prompts new ideas for expansion of the Funtom toy line. I find myself quite inspired.” Within a fornight Lord Phantomhive dispatched new directives for the Belfast factory to produce hobby horses of the finest mahogany and so skillfully wrought a child might think they rocked a fine Arabian across the parlor floor.

The lord’s subtle improvement of mood infected the entire household and, for a while, the curtains were pulled back on many covered windows and the sunlight pouring in was golden rather than grey. He was faithful in his twice weekly visits his wife, bringing her imported delicacies as the doctors approved them, teas and herbs, fine fabrics and laces to be made into darling gowns for his heir.

A pox on the damned Midfords! They neglected to inform the previous Lord Phantomhive of the defect on one side their lineage when they bargained for a joining of their children and houses; it should have been suspected, given their relation to the throne. The royal bleeding disease took Lady Phantomhive when she miscarried the 7th Earl of Phantomhive in her 7th month. 

With their deaths curtains were once again drawn and the manor was swathed in darkness, mirrors covered so the earl did not see an expression more haunted than he ever intended.

At five and twenty Lord Phantomhive was a widower, and he slammed the manor gates shut to the entreaties of other wealthy families desiring connection, offering up their daughters. They were ignorant of the sacrifice they attempted to lay at the feet of the noble’s dark nature.

“It’s just as well,” Lord Phantomhive mused as he gazed out the glass over the damp garden as a chilly winter rain came down and froze his beloved roses bushes, frosting their bare thorny branches with sleet. “I would have wrecked the child and her, eventually.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not, my lord,” Sebastian demurred as he poured the tea and arranged a tray of finger cakes in an attractive spiral for his lord to sample. “You did seem something approaching content for a moment. It could have been-”

“It could have been ruinous!” the earl gritted out, refusing to swing his face from the window. “She was too gentle and unspoilt, despite her unfaithfulness, to have survived me indefinitely. One day my true appetite would have been revealed, and she would have revolted at the sight of me.”

“And what appetite is that, my lord?” Sebastian asked, knowing the answer full well.

The slap to his face was expected and gratefully received. His master had talent for delivering a blow with such exacting precision and force it could make the demon’s ear actually ring for minutes after.

“Pretending innocence of that which you are full aware is unattractive, Sebastian,” the earl grumbled as he folded himself into his seat at his desk and disconsolately plucked at a watercress sandwich.

“You must eat, my little lord,” the demon entreated.

“I am 2 inches over you, demon, spare me your patronizing,” he snipped.

Sebastian’s eyes glowed merrily as the impudent tone in his master’s voice, harkening back to his most brattish phase when the butler spanked him soundly for his undignified behavior. 

“You would prefer my large lord?”

“I would prefer you piss off.”

Sebastian blinked.

For the first time in many years he was well and truly taken aback by his despot. 

Well, his lord was but human, after all. Prone to human fits of emotion and gracelessness. The demon supposed mourning a wife was adequate excuse for such lowly language, even if his lord did not love her. 

The Earl of Phantomhive was incapable of loving anyone or anything. He only possessed. But he had once, long ago, been her innocent, childish friend. A shadow of that lingered over the loss of Lady Phantomhive, an echo of what might have been but never was. A whisper of possibility burned away 15 years ago.

Hours later, when the manor was dark and the servants abed the demon felt his master plucking at the thread that connected them, a clear command for the butler to attend him. He stood before the earl and was soundly ignored for several minutes as the man continued to peruse a legal document. 

The demon was still as one of his lord’s lovely statues that dotted the estate and simply waited, his eyes resting easily on his master’s fine face. Even now, when his lord’s mood was fouler than usual, the dark miasma of his simmering ire palpable as it practically emanated from him in waves, he was glory and ruin in one. 

Lord Phantomhive was a physically lovely specimen, to be sure, but Sebastian had little interest in that beyond appreciating the mere aesthetics of his master’s form. It was his internal dichotomy, the righteousness that guided his actions sharpened by the savagery with which he executed his duties, the perverse joy he took in ridding the world of another villain, the even more perverted pleasure he took in cutting a man to ribbons slowly. 

That was what enchanted the demon above all. What a dazzling darkness his master possessed. Tonight he was darker still in his introspection.

“Draw a bath, Sebastian,” his lord drawled, not deigning to glance at the demon as his pen scratched out another line in immaculate script. 

“It is quite late, my lord. It shall take some time to heat the water as the pilot must be relit.”

“I do not recall asking for the particulars of your drudgery.”

So heavy was the disdain leveled at the black butler it nearly dripped over him, rich and heady. Years ago he would have smirked knowingly at his tiny master, down into his impertinent face, knowing he was the one who possessed the true power in their contract, and he found the young earl’s imperiousness humorous. 

Now, the reverse had come to pass. Sebastian had been free of the resolute bind of the original contract for many years now, and by choice he’d utterly enslaved himself under his earl more with each year, eager to witness what new turn in his lord’s shadowy character would develop, what previously unknown gorey vice would he discover. 

The demon may now be considered as less than a bug to be crushed under the Earl of Phantomhive’s fine boot, and something approximating joy filled the void within him at the thought.

“My apologies, my lord. I will attend to it at once.”

In the bath he stood before his master by the steaming tub, deft gloved fingers slipping ebony buttons free, neatly sliding dark silk sleeves off and folding them away. Shoes, stockings and garters were all removed and set aside, along with his undershirt until his master was entirely unclad. His lord turned and the demon’s tugged the black ribbon holding his dark hair free, and midnight blue strands feathered across ivory shoulder blades. His lord stepped into the tub and sank with a sigh, his head canting back to rest against the cool ceramic lip.

Sebastian inclined at the waist and took a step back, ready to depart as his master had declined the use of his services for bathing for years now. 

“I did not give you leave. My hair requires washing,” his master murmured, eyes closed, his pale face turned in Sebastian’s direction although his eyes were closed, one elegant arm draped gracefully over the edge of the tub, fingers relaxed and spread as a bead of moisture slowly gave way to gravity and splashed to the tile. 

Sebastian thought of the painting La Mort de Marat. How in death some things become more than they were in the moment before their heart stilled. The expiration itself imbued them with a power they’d not possessed in life. 

But Earl of Phantomhive must not end now, no. He must continue on and on, raging at the world, at its injustice and loss. The demon would ensure it, and remain by his side until the end.

The demon knelt behind his master, gloves set aside and sleeves rolled up as he used the pitcher to pour water over his raja’s dark head. The ruby gaze lingered there for a few moments, watching rivulet slides and pool in his master’s collarbones before overflowing to track down his sveltely muscled chest.

Sebastian massaged lavender soap into his monarch’s hair and shivered with satisfaction when his lord sighed and the furrow between his brows smoothed for the first time in weeks. The young lord should, on occasion, allow himself to relax. Being the furious, ever swinging sword of the state was taxing, to be sure. 

As was losing one’s wife and heir, the demon supposed. 

It was only good sense to take full advantage of his servants and let them handle the menial so he was not bothered and could indulge in lassitude when he chose.

The demon’s slim fingers circled his lord’s temples rhythmically until the earl’s breathing deepened. Sebastian then soaped a cloth and ran it over one side of his master’s neck, and when his tyrant did not stop him, he took it as permission to continue. The demon smiled to himself as he followed the same path he did every evening when his little lord was a brat. 

The difference, aside from the obvious alteration of the earl’s physique, was his lord did not squirm and huff any longer, commenting if the water were too warm or too chill, the soap not the same as the last bar and why was it changed, middling conversation about the minutia of the day just gone and the one impending.

Lord Phantomhive this evening was silent and pliant as a waxen figure, his muscles ever looser the longer the demon’s slowly swiped them clean. The violet eye cracked when the demon’s dipped his fingers into the water to lift one long leg by the calf to be washed, then it closed once more. 

Lavender and roses hung thick in the heated air as the butler worked over his prince, and his black hair fell into his eyes. He did not start nor blink when two fingers slowly lifted from the lip of the metal tub to flick it back; he only nodded in silent gratitude for the consideration as he labored on. 

The pitcher upended once more over his regent’s head, the butler’s fingers pushed clean water through the now squeaking cobalt tresses, then he gathered himself to stand. 

Swift as a cobra strike a pale hand latched onto his forearm with iron pressure. The demon paused, one eyebrow arching in silent query at the blue eye that slid in his direction then away, dragging his hand with it. The butler’s hand, then forearm, was plunged beneath the surface to press against his lord’s turgid sex. 

“Be thorough, Sebastian.”

“Yes, my lord.” The demon’s eyes glowed with delight at the treat he was unexpectedly bestowed. 

And yet he did expect it, one day, one night. It was as inevitable as the tide that at some point that they would land here. 

The demon had for years kept his little lord waiting in uncertainty as to when he might swoop upon the noble and consume him entirely. Likewise, Sebastian had no notion as to what event or mood would eventually turn his master to seek a more intimate touch from his demon. 

The fact that during adolescence, and into young adulthood, his master seemed as indifferent to the butler’s impeccable form as he was to Mey-rin’s generous bosom or his betrothed’s delicate beauty had, on occasion, lead the demon to think perhaps the procedure to damn the Phantomhive bloodline had unintended effect and rendered his young lord impotent. 

The demon was disabused of that notion when they tortured the Vicscount of Druitt, driving him to utter madness with shared relish. The tightness of Lord Phantomhive’s trousers did little to hide the unmistakable hardness that had pressed into the small of the demon’s back as they hung over Chamber together, taunting and tempting the piteous noble and each other.

And yet Lord Phantomhive had never deigned to indicate interest nor command the butler provide satisfaction. Sebastian’s master, despite how transparent he was in his other perverse desires and wanton violence, had proved inscrutable in this particular regard until tonight.

The demon took a moment to let his eyes wandered over his master’s frame with a new gaze, now that intentions were finally laid bare. He’d seen the earl unclothed countless times, and nude or clad in finery it had mattered little to the demon as he went about duties, including bathing him over the years.

But now he was free to look with a varied gaze upon his redolent master. He was handsomely proportioned, thick and long, and his sex filled the demon’s hand more than satisfactorily. Trimmed dark hair nestled between his legs, but not scattered across his chest or under his arms. The earl had damned style and convention as ever, removing it as often as he shaved his face. He was nearly as smooth as the precocious whelp with whom the demon had initially contracted, except for where it mattered most. The dichotomy was fascinating to the demon and his other hand dipped below the water to fan hellfire heated fingers over the earl’s firm chest. He felt the slow thrum of his master's pulse, the bloody clock that marked the passage of time in this wonderous, malignant being to whom the demon was inextricably, gleefully bound.

Ciel, Earl of Phantomhive’s body was heated and hard as the marble figures in the garden warmed by the summer sun. And infinitely more interesting to touch than unresponsive stone. The demon’s fingers tightened and slid down, then up, a single measured pump, as ruby eyes raised to his lord’s face. 

“If you await direction you are most ineffectual demon ever, Sebastian,” his lord drawled again, eyes open to half mast and watching the butler. “Don’t dally. I desire relief and, since my wife is rotting in the ground, you’ll have to do.”

“Yes, my lord,” the demon acceded and he tightened his grip, leaning over the edge of the tub more fully, and stroked his lord, carmine eyes clashing with cobalt and violet, neither looking away. While his despot’s features typically arranged themselves into blankness or boredom when dealing with some matter that could not be ignored, Sebastian was pleased to note his lord was a little more expressive when the demon’s touch satisfied him with a quicker tempo.

The sublime curve of his master’s lower lip dipped down as he exhaled when the demon’s clever thumb caught on the plummy head, a black nail pressing into the slit briefly. A muscle in his lord’s cheek jumped as his cock jerked in the butler’s hand when the demon introduced a twisting motion into the repertoire. Long fingers curled over the edge of the tub when Sebastian’s touch feathered down to cup his balls and tug them before sliding up again to stroke him more forcefully. 

His lord and master did, after all, tell him not to dally. Perhaps, after he dried the earl the demon might protract the next encounter, learn how each and every one of his dictator’s cool nerves responded to the hellfire heated touch of the black butler. 

But for now Sebastian was ruthlessly effective, expedient, and sure. While his lord was a luminous monstrosity, self-possessed and disciplined, he was made of flesh and blood at the end of it all. He responded to the practiced stimulating touch of his demon as expected and when he released and befouled the water it was with a long exhalation, mismatched eyes fluttering closed behind comely lashes, the pink flush of his cheeks deeper from more than the simple heat of the bath.

Sebastian withdrew his hand, once assured his master was sated and soft, and shook out a warm towel to pat his lord dry. As he did so he was aware of being scrutinized. The earl looked down his nose at the demon as he obediently lifted one arm then the other to be dried and turned as prodded to allow the demon to complete his task. If the demon lingered while drying him, neither remarked on it.

Sebastian offered his master a nightshirt which was dismissed as his lord kneeled gracefully up onto the bed, rolling his shoulders before stretching languidly against soft sheets and pillows stuffed with the finest down, without a care for being entirely naked before his servant in such a manner. 

Languorous and sensual his movements were, designed to tempt in a manner practiced over years since Lord Phantomhive was but a gamine youth who enchanted many with his magnetic gaze and fetching features. Now his body was a lean, strong weapon, designed to maim and manipulate and be marveled over. 

Saliva pooled on Sebastian’s tongue as he watched his master splay himself over pristine sheets. Lord Phantomhive projected an air of the untouchable while every inch of his fine form beckoned any who saw him so to entreaty to lay hands on him.

Sebastian’s regent regarded him with a slight frown as one hand finger-combed out his damp hair.

Sebastian smiled beatifically at his master, making no move to join him on the bed. He would, like any good butler, wait for an order then comply most ardently. His lord was a proud thing, indeed, and did not relish voicing the request for the demon to bed him, thus his perturbed expression.

“‘Tis strange,” Lord Phantomhive said quietly, regarding the demon standing by his bed. It seemed the earl did not quite look at Sebastian but through him. 

“What is, my lord?” Sebastian’s tongue was an undisciplined thing and flickered out to wet his lower lip. He would show his lord strange, indeed. 

That foreign feeling of fullness that, once achieved, left one fevered and aching when empty. 

The incomprehensible desire to choke oneself on the heated thickness of another man’s flesh. 

The demon would show him all manner of things, his lord need only say the words.

The hand not slowly sliding through midnight blue strands wandered. One pale finger circled a flat nipple briefly before dipping lower fan over his abdomen, lower still to lightly stroke himself, almost thoughtfully, as he gazed at the butler. The demon's eyes remained on his face, awaiting the moment the contract seal upon the earl's eye would flare when he gave voice to his need and order Sebastian to satisfy him.

“That a demon’s touch would be less gratifying than my own. I was so certain, once given leave, you would be perverse beyond imagining,” his lord sighed, disappointment writ on his handsome face. 

Sebastian felt as though he’d been plunged into the winter Thames.

“I’ll take grapefruit with creme de menthe and some croquettes for breakfast, Sebastian. I leave the tea to you. Dismissed.”

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mwuhahahahaaa


	8. His Master, Seduced

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters 9 and 10 will be published at much longer intervals than the previously quicker update schedule in order to A) drag this out and B) allow me time to do a LOT of rewriting as this story took on a life of its own and demands changes to the original ending now...which I hope will please the readers.
> 
> Please comment if you like, feedback makes my day!

The Earl of Phantomhive’s cane clattered to the floor where he carelessly cast it as he stormed through the door of the London manor. “I’ll not answer to that bloated imbecile Edward! He dares question the necessity of the Crown’s Guard Dog? Without me he’d not have a realm to rule!”

Sebastian tipped a polished shoe under the cane to flip it up to catch, even as his left hand sailed out to snag his imperator’s cloak as it was flung at his face. He followed on his master’s heels as the despot stalked through the London townhouse, dropping his cravat, gloves tossed forcefully, his hat hurled down and trod upon, the colorful stuffed bird nested there crushed.

Lord Phantomhive paced the study restlessly, fingers clenching and unwinding over and over as he circled, muttering imprecations and threats in rare languages, arguing with himself and his new King. In his soliloquy the earl took one side then the other in an effort to convince himself that striding back to the palace and running the new monarch through for the insult would be an unwise decision.

“Without the license of the Guard Dog I would be but a common thug,” the incensed earl muttered.

“My little lord, you could never be common nor a th-”

“If I wanted bootlicking, Sebastian, I’d knock you to my feet!”

The demon pressed his lips closed and continued picking up the castoffs his master left in his wake. 

The vehement volume of the noble’s last statement seemed to catch up to him and he paused, took a deep breath, and visibly calmed himself, hands coming up to fix his skewed collar and retie his hair back from where a few locks had escaped to trail across his face.

“Damn. I find myself out of sorts and should release my temper more productively.”

The demon paused in the refolding of a waistcoat. “What is your pleasure, my lord?”

The earl looked him over and his expression turned thoughtful as his hand raised to untie his eyepatch and hand it over. “Fetch the sabers. And not those ridiculous dulled edges. I’m past practicing.”

Half an hour later both devil and demonic master were smirking, the earl having blooded his opponent first, the demon impertinently leaving a neat slice through his master’s blouse sleeve.

Sebastian touched the dangling broken end of his pocket watch chain, gloved fingers stained from the shallow puncture to his side. “You will need to replace that, my young lord.” But his expression was merry, his eyes glowing in response to his sovereign's last strike, which had been delivered with a near feral snarl. 

Such a beastial noise lurching past refined lips roused the demon as well as a melodious hymn elevated a devout’s fervor.

“I’ll buy you ten more if only to see the dismay on your face when I break it again.” 

His magnate tipped his sabre at the demon once more, giving the creature a moment to drop the chain and raise his weapon just before the lunge. Sebastian was lethal with all his master’s fine silver, as well as this sword, but given he had no desire to kill Lord Phantomhive he kept his blows to superficial grazes. 

His master, however, had no such compunction and took advantage over the demon. His strikes landed heavier, quicker, more vicious and the black butler’s parries were a flurry of motion. At the end of another rally Sebastian’s cheek was scored as well as his thigh, his master once more going for his hamstring. He always seemed to delight in witnessing his butler hobbled.

“You are in quite the temper today, my lord,” the demon offered as he leaned over to inspect the damage. He would heal, of course, but how quickly would be at the earl’s pleasure. “Are you imagining the King’s visage over my own?”

“Don’t be stupid, Sebastian, if I did we’d learn how quickly you can heal from your head rolling across the floor!” The lord punctuated the last words with a swing at neck level and it was only the butler’s inhuman reflexes that allowed him to lean under it, his back arched unnaturally. 

His master, quick and precise, reversed his grip and thrust again just as the demon lashed forward to regain his balance.

“Ah!”

“Ha!”

Twin gasps fell from their lips and the demon looked down. His master had run him quite through, center and true, the point entering below his navel and emerging nearly a foot higher from his back.

“Well struck,” he murmured as the tang of his sour blood filled his throat. The demon lifted his face to meet his lord’s too close gaze, and puffs of the earl’s heated breath struck Sebastian's cheek.

“Hardly,” Lord Phantomhive tsked. “You refuse to truly match me, allowing me leeway while you dance about and have yet to return a single blow with equal force.”

It was true, the worst his regent received was damage to his clothing, his skin as flawless as ever. 

“I do not wish to hurt you, my lord.”

White, even teeth flashed into a smile that was stretched a too wide, more a rictus. 

“Oh, Sebastian, you do amuse me.” the earl murmured darkly as he twisted his wrist to lever the sword another inch. “Demon you may be, but you suffer the wrenches of this body as well as any man, even if they may vanish in a moment, depending on my mood. Tell me,” his horrid ruler murmured, leaning in so his lips grazed the butler’s ear, “I’m curious to know the sensation. It is a mythical beast from a foreign land, exotic and unknown to me since I was but 10.” 

Lord Phantomhive’s breath came in shallow pants and when he spoke again the tip of his tongue flicked the lobe of the demon’s ear. “Sebastian. How. Does. It. Feel?”

The demon’s head lolled back at the sensual drag of the blade and again at the dark imprecation. What delicious agony his master gifted him.

“Master,” he gasped as the blade was sawed into him again, “It...it is sublime anguish to have you buried in me...to the hilt. Would that I could sssshaaaaare” he hissed, inhuman resonance lacing his voice, “- it with you.” 

He noted goose pimples rose along his lord’s neck, and he dared to dart his tongue out to flitter over them.

The earl’s chuckled, a sound rich as Vintage Narcissus tea, as he took two paces back, his blade sliding free the warm sheath of the butler’s innards. His gaze turned speculative upon the demon. 

“I give you leave to collect yourself, then we begin again.” The sabre flashed in an arc to halt half an inch from the demon’s nose. “And his time you will not patronize my abilities. This exercise is pointless otherwise.”

A luminous spark flared to life in his lord’s violet eye, and the Sebastian shivered at the heat he glimpsed in that gaze, at the high color stealing into the earl’s usually pale cheeks. The black butler carefully cupped his hands to his stomach so as not to bespoil the rugs as he ducked into his room to change. He would prefer to show his master his best in all ways, even if his the next to last clean waistcoat may be sacrificed in minutes.

When they faced each other once more, his lord had stripped away his blouse to leave only his undershirt tucked into emerald trousers. It was entirely indecent for the man to be seen in such a state in the middle of the day. 

The disregard for propriety titillated the demon nearly as much as the twisted smile his lord gave him as he intoned, “For as much weight as it still holds, Sebastian, I order you give me no quarter.” Only keeping his lips pressed firmly together prevented the demon from openly salivating at the decree.

A second later the Earl of Phantomhive’s fingers touched his cheek in wonderment at the nick that appeared there. Slick rubies fell to gravity and his white undershirt was marred crimson. Mismatched eyes widened at the speed of the slice.

The butler lifted his shoulders in a languid shrug, the silent _ **Well, you did command it**_ plain in the gesture.

His despicable lord’s expression melted from wonder to joyous malice as the noble’s narrow pink tongue snaked out to lick at the rivulet of blood tracking past the corner of his mouth.

The demon delighted to witness the malevolent light in his lord’s eyes refine into a flame as he parried the next quick flash of Sebastian’s sabre. With a fluid spin that brought his own edge into contact with the demon’s shoulder, the earl blooded him again. A neat sliver of flesh parted under his master’s skilled metal touch and landed on the floor with a soft, wet sound.

“Mmmm,” the earl hummed as his eyes landed greedily on the gash in Sebastian’s sleeve, even as he parried the demon’s riposte, a balestra followed by a lunge that bent the black butler’s dark form into elegant contortions.

The villainous noble’s en quartata bared his back whilst protecting his front and the demonic servant's mouth dropped open so he could better taste on the air the blood from the slice he scored across his master’s shoulder blade, a macabre mockery of the gorgeous maiming his lord’s gave him not a year earlier. His tyrant’s undershirt flapped against his back before one edge stuck to the streaking vital fluid.

The Earl of Phantomhive made no noise nor flinch at the sting, the only shift from him the flame roiling in his eyes exploding into wildfire. 

The Earl of Phantomhive’s sabre tip flipped an incalculably rare 17th century Meissen vase from its shelf right at the demon’s face. Sebastian caught it out of long-ingrained reflex, thus lowering his guard on his right and once again his master’s aim was true.

Sebastian groaned at the silken glide of his master’s blade through his ribs, and the cobalt inferno in his master’s gaze, so close to his, seared him like hellfire.

“That’s right, Sebastian, you can take this and ever so much more,” his lord commended, his breath coming in pants harder than could be excused by simple exercise. 

“Oh, yes...yes, my lord.” The butler’s head canted back and his nose skimmed the cool marble of his dictator’s cheek, the noble’s garnet blood streaking down his face to mix with the demon’s ebony ichor.

The Earl of Phantomhive shoved the demon off his blade with a hard push to his shoulder and the wild laugh that burst from him was nearly giddy as a child’s. 

Any child but his lord, whose only possible joys were trampled and burned and had bled out ages ago.

The tinge of mania in his lord’s mirth lured the demon’s forward, offering a passata-sotto to his master, who returned a prise de fer.

Such a danse macabre the demon had never before enjoyed. His lord was all sanguine finesse and gory symmetry. The clash of metal on metal resonated with a peal Notre Dame’s bells would envy.

The demon’s deceptive trompement did not trick his master, and Lord’s Phantomhive’s next strike neatly parted the buttons of the butler’s waistcoat and ripped his fine linen shirt open. 

Sebastian grinned, all teeth now, as he darted forward and his sabre line whisked past the earl’s ear. A few strands of cobalt hair floated the floor. 

Around the room they parried and thrust, the fine cherry desk chair lost an arm, the Louis XV Giltwood clock was knocked from the side table and smashed under their feet, the only recently replaced silk wallpaper suffered not only sabre scores but a smear of the earl’s blood when the demon’s next lunge backed him between the fireplace and the bookshelf. 

It was only the earl’s plaque, his blade landing flat alongside Sebastian’s head, that allowed him room to maneuver out of the trap as the demon actually stumbled from the blow. The black butler nearly levered his master over the desk, his next riposte so deft and quick, but the earl swayed back limber as a reed, his fingers curling around a paperweight which he then crashed into the side of the demon’s face.

Sebastian’s head rocked to the side and when it came back, blood pouring from his temple, his teeth were unnaturally sharp.

“Oh, are we to be unsporting th-” The last word was silenced by the Earl of Phantomhive’s left hand darting out to clench the demon’s throat, fingers digging in alongside his larynx. Sebastian’s eyelids fluttered and his lord used the grip to force the demon over the desk, slamming the back of his head into the wood with a crack.

Lord Phantomhive loomed over Sebastian, the pulse of his contract mark flashing violet. The demon’s burned deliciously with the intensity of his master’s resolve.

“I could break you over and over again, Sebastian, and you would return in an instant for more, wouldn’t you?!” The Earl of Phantomhive brought his sword arm up and thrust the point through the demon’s sabre hand, pinning it to the desk by the wrist. 

The demon’s voice constricted, he could only mouth **_Yes, my lord_** and stare up at him, fingers twitching uselessly around the sabre hilt until it dropped to the floor with a clatter. The contract seal upon his free hand burned like phosphorous as Sebastian's’ fingers trailed from the earl’s shoulder to his bare bicep, travelling delicately down his lord’s wrist to eventually fold over the hand grasping his throat.

Rather than attempt to wrench his lord’s grip off Sebastian’s fingers folded over the master’s and pressed down ever harder.

“Sebastian,” his tyrant murmured, his breathing slipping from pants of exertion to deeper, more labored drags as he applied more of his weight to the demon’s throat. “You see it. This appetite of mine. It was born in me in the moment you appeared. I could have asked for rescue, for whatever passed for salvation with a demon, but all I truly wanted was their _anguish_. And you provided...you always have.”

Lord Phantomhive’s free hand released his grip on his sabre’s hilt to wind fingers into the demon’s inky hair, his face so close they would have shared breath had the demon’s airflow not been utterly cut off. The black butler nodded as best he could with his hair clenched so tight strands parted from his scalp. 

“My only happiness is the suffering of the wicked. My most ardent lust to tear apart evil.” The earl of Phantomhive’s tongue slipped out to swipe away blood from his split lip. Sebastian mourned he did not let gravity take it to splash upon the demon’s face. He would be utterly drunk with only a drop.

The ravenous hunger for souls that had been Sebastian’s constant companion since he sprung from the void into existence was nothing compared to the absolute and searing **craving** to be consumed in the perverse manner his lord threatened.

Sebastian blinked dreamily up at his regent and knew not if it were the sublime strangulation or hellish want blurring his vision, but his lord’s face was so close and, for a mad instant, the demon nearly prayed he would be the one devoured at the end of it all.

“You would do that for me, Sebastian, wouldn’t you? Withstand this despicable need that is only slaked when all is agony? Embrace it?” The light of near madness in his lord's eyes was matched only by the blaze of unholy desire in the demon's.

Sebastian’s response was to hitch a long black leg around his master’s waist to yank his hips flush to the desk, pressing the young lord between the demon’s spread thighs. 

His master should never lower himself to ask such a thing of the demon. He need only give the order and the black butler would overthrow Heaven itself to assure Lord Phantomhive’s every shadowy whim and dark fantasy was brought to fruition.

“Y-yes, my lor-” the demon’s husked raggedly as grey spots danced in the periphery of his vision.

The glowing seal upon his hand, clasped over his master’s about his throat, was reflected in violent bonfire of his Lord Phantomhive’s gaze just before the earl’s mouth crashed down upon his.

This. 

**_This._**

The full bouquet of a fine dark vintage aged perfectly burst over his tongue as his lord’s kiss violently claimed him, first with lips, then tongue and teeth that bit into the demon.

This was what Sebastian yearned for since he altered their contract. The full bloom of the obsidian rose in the Phantomhive garden tearing at him with every thorn it’s dark lineage presaged, ripping the demon open to his blackest core

Sebastian would have mewled had he the breath and his vocal chords not nearly crushed. The demon’s lower lip was pulled between his tyrant’s teeth, and he would have sighed had he been allowed. 

What a shame he was likely to pass out any moment; although, the notion his lord might have his way with the demon’s unconscious form was delectable in its own right. Sebastian’s eyes flashed luminous red once more before his fingers went lax, sliding to thump to the felt covering of the desk. 

Suddenly, air filled his lungs as his malicious despot loosened his grip and leaned in to mutter into the demon’s ear. 

“Oh no, Sebastian, there is no enjoyment to be had if you are not awake to flinch.”

“Y-yes...master,” the demon muttered, his tongue thick from where it had been bitten, and his other leg came up to match its twin around his earl’s waist as his back arched to press himself more fully to his master’s now obvious hardness. Devilish delight overtook him as he remarked a smear of his own blood on his lord’s lower lip and he craned up to lick it away.

The Earl of Phantomhive reared back, stripping what was left of his undershirt off, then his hands returned to the demon, no gentler than before and the butler’s waistcoat and torn shirt were further rent under nimble fingers, splayed open on either side of him as the wings of a moth pinned on display.

The earl let his eyes roam over the pale spill of flesh before him only a moment before his mouth descended again, teeth sinking into the demon’s shoulder, manicured nails digging into his side. Sebastian groaned, more than happy to give acknowledgement and voice to every discomfort his master bestowed him.

When the _shinigami_ Grell’s death scythe tore into his shoulder it had been unpleasant and his arm would not respond for hours, but the demon had the luxury of simply turning his attention away from the pain to other things more vital.

Pain was a demon’s trade and, after a time, it usually became the simple background noise of his unnatural existence. Except the usual had never been just that while in service to the nefarious lord.

Now...oh now, how Sebastian writhed under the exquisite sting of his master’s desire. It was not only the physical wounds the earl inflicted on the demon that roused his ardor. No, it was the fanatical gleam in his little lord’s eyes when they flashed up the length of the demon’s torso as his tongue stole out to drag along the edge of the wound between the demon’s ribs.

“How does it feel, Sebastian?” his raja murmured once more, nails once more raking his trim, pale flank. His lord’s voice was blurred at the edges as though he’d imbibed too much of his fine port. Or perhaps it was the demonic blood over which the Earl of Phantomhive’s tongue slicked.

The demon’s hand not pinned by sword point rose and fluttered towards his master’s face, thumb catching in the slice upon his cheek and dragging over it to gather the mire there before he rubbed it over his thin, pale lips. 

“Like I was made to be impaled by you, my lord.” His tongue slithered out to sample the heady vintage, and Sebastian’s head spun. “I am, as e-ever, at your s-service...and pleasure. Harder!” 

The earl’s languorous moan at the prompt had the demon’s answering in kind and soon fingers were mapping each other’s flesh with scratch marks and drags. His little lord deigned to cast the sword pinning the demon’s wrist away and Sebastian’s bloody hand glided through his earl’s hair to pull him down once more, so he might plunder the depths of his master’s mouth.

Here, here was where he tasted best, here was where the very breath of the Lord Phantomhive’s life was passed into the demon’s lungs with each moaned exhale. He tasted of sweets and bitterness, righteousness and rage, and of the demon too when he sucked on his tongue.

Sebastian did not protest nor voice encouragement when his trousers were torn down and off, his only answer the lengthening of his black tipped fingers to dig into the pale wings of his master’s shoulder blades as his Lord Phantomhive sheathed himself brutally within the demon. 

Neither of them had a thought for gentleness or preparation, oil or salve. Neither comfort nor care was wanted or received and the bloom of pain, a sudden bonfire in his belly, had the demon keening shamelessly.

“Master...Master!” Sebastian called with each thrust.

Lord Phantomhive threw his head back in ecstasy when Sebastian’s sharp nails scored his back and warm trickles of blood traced the bunch and release of muscles as his body worked. 

“Oh...yes...who...who masters whom now?! Again, Sebastian!” his master commanded and the exultant shout that burst from him when the devil’s nails scored him again was a hellish symphony to the demon, all relief and horror in his Lord Phantomhive’s voice that he sought and relished the pain so much. That it was only there he found pleasure.

His master inflicted horrors upon others, but none so fiendish as those with which he tormented himself. He punished villainy, and reveled in his own wickedness. 

The paradox that was this beauteous blood drenched noble was Sebastian’s life’s work.

The demon hoped his master was pleased with the picture he painted, splaying the demon out so lewdly beneath him, one of the demon’s hands now stroking himself in time with his lord’s brutal thrusts that jostled the desk under them. His other hand dragged down the earl’s chest, sharp nails catching on a nipple and, when it to began to bleed, Sebastian arched up to fasten his mouth over it, sharp canines digging in.

His lord’s arm hooked around Sebastian’s neck, crushing him to his chest, the angle severe and awkward, and the demon was enamoured. He would contort his body until sinew split and bones broke if it pleased his master.

Sebastian lived to be wrecked by Ciel, Earl of Phantomhive.

The teeth that bit into his ear were followed by the sweetest foul things, his lord gasping secrets and sins to the demon with each sharp push into the hellfire heated clutch of the creature’s body.

“So many years...I rebelled against this instinct...thought it was not right… oh...Sebastian…” a tongue snaked under the lobe, the lord clearly unable to decide if he wished to suckle the sweat from the demon’s skin or bleed him further as soft lips feathered over the broken skin his teeth had rent moments before. “What folly...it is the _**only**_ thing right about me!!” 

A hard hand hooked under Sebastian’s knee and Lord Phantomhive shoved at the demon, knocking his back flat to the desk once more as he hoisted the leg over his shoulder, his expression wild.

“What years I’ve wasted denying myself!” He turned his face to bite hard at the succulent muscle of the demon’s calf. 

Sebastian’s back arched in approval at the words, at his master breaking him open over and over, at the sight of his blood slicking his tyrant’s mouth, the horrid truth pouring from his lips as rotten ambrosia. 

“My lord...we should make up for the time th-AH!” The new angle had the demon positively writing under his earl. 

“Yes! There, master!” The demon arched and bowed, his fingers rising to rake down his emperor's chest then sailing over his head to wrap over the edge of the desk to brace himself to accept more of his lord’s wild passion. The heavy furniture barked an inch across the floor with each powerful thrust.

“Years...years spent….trying to … YES! AGAIN!”,” the demon gasped as his master marked the demon over and over again as his, always his, and his alone with dragging teeth and nails that scored his skin. “Blind...blind yourself...MY LORD! ...to the gorgeous...beast you’ve so happily become...Master! MASTER!” The demon gave up all words but his tyrant's name as his legs clenched around his Lord Phantomhive, holding him fast, unwilling to let him move an inch away unless it was immediately followed by another violent thrust that had the demon nearly howling.

“Yesssssss,” Lord Phantomhive hissed as his hips worked in tight swivels, grinding into the ecstatic creature below him, “your monster...your masterpiece.” His expression as he gazed down on the black butler was wracked with ecstasy and fury. “You did not lie...you never lie to me...this truly is...brutality...Sebastian...Sebastian...SEBASTIAN!”

As though spurned on by saying it aloud, admitting to demon, letting the horrid truth loose into the world, Lord Phantomhive’s violence redoubled and he dragged them both to the floor, Sebastian sliding off the desk inelegantly to tangle with his lord. 

It was all teeth and nails and fury, hissed curses and muttered dark truths as they rutted upon the priceless carpet, the wreck and ruin of the earl’s antiques strewn about them.

When the demon found himself mounted from behind, his face shoved hard into the floor by a clenched fist in his hair grinding his cheek into the rug, he flung his arms out to prostrate himself fully, and let his lord have all that he would of him. 

Sebastian deliriously raked his claws through silken thread down to the polished hardwood and earned a delicious blow to the back of his head for it. 

“Am I flavored to your liking now, Sebastian?!” Lord Phantomhive panted behind him before his teeth once more sank into the butler’s flesh, this time high on his neck, tearing at him.

“MASTER!” the demon groaned as his cheek, his knees were burned by the carpet with each violent thrust. 

His lord’s breathing was ragged, his hips lurching unevenly now, thick cock sliding into the demon before withdrawing once more before lunging again with such vigor the devil desired desperately to choke on it. 

The demon knew his Lord Phantomhive was close. What would happen after he cared not.

Lord Phantomhive might attempt to beat him senseless or follow through on the threat to remove his head or he might deign to fuck the demon once more. 

None of it mattered!

All Sebastian wanted was in this moment, when his blood pooled beneath him, mixing with that of his blue blooded master, Lord Phantomhive in him, over him, in his full glory, unmasked and dazzling in his depravity. 

When his earl spent, his thick length finally juttering to a halt deep within, filling the demon in a heated flood, Sebastian felt he nearly floated from the sensation. All wrenches and silken tears along his muscles, sweat and blood and saliva, nails and hair and teeth, he was pared down to only sensation.

For a brief moment the demon’s hunger was sated as he was pressed flat to the floor, the ruined carpet beneath him making a sick, wet noise under the combined weight of the demon and his master as the Earl of Phantomhive draped over him.

The hysterical laughter than tickled the back of the demon’s neck as his lord roughly petted him, fingers raking through his clotted hair as he rutted a few last times, hips pressing hard against the demon’s buttocks to wring the last remnants of pained pleasure from them both would haunt Sebastian’s dreams. 

If he ever slept.


	9. His Master, Demanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween, here's 10,000+ words of serious smut. The tags warnings have been updated, so take heed if you prefer something less...vigorous.
> 
> Also, I really wanted to get this up today, so please excuse any typos. I'll go back and fix them later.

The demon witnessed and participated in countless acts of fornication of his long existence, but none had brought him true pleasure. Not like this, this decadent meld of lust and violence, of hellish sensation and almost heavenly passion. 

Once the beast of the earl’s true desire was finally unleashed the noble had little reservation about letting it roam freely whenever the fancy took him. Sometimes Lord Phantomhive contrived an excuse, once again inviting Sebastian to assist in his bathing. This often resulted in copious bruises for both of them, given their propensity for slamming each other against the cold tiles, or the earl bending the demon over the edge of the tub, shoving his face into the water and half drowning Sebastian as he thrust into him viciously. 

Once the demon flailed about in reflex when he ardently desired not to lapse unconscious before bringing his master to release, and his elbow struck Lord Phantomhive in the face. By the end of it all the demon was in an utter stupor after blood from the earl’s fractured nose trickled into his mouth as Lord Phantomhive kissed him while the mirror next to the sink cracked as he took the demon against it. 

The black butler needed nearly an hour to rouse and extricate himself from the chilled bathwater after the earl dumped him into it upon completion and put himself to bed without assistance.

Other times his malicious raja simply pushed the demon to his knees, with a hard fist in his hair, and used his mouth to his satisfaction. Watching the butler’s careful schedule of events for the day fall into disarray as the demon swiped at his bespoiled, handsome face and clothing, then glanced at his pocketwatch, gave Lord Phantomhive a small reason to smile afterwards. 

Sebastian did not mind, truly. If anything, his Lord so ruthlessly using him then sending him off to perform some menial housework, mindful of the fingernail scratches to the back of his neck, the tackiness of his cheek where a spot dried unseen, put additional energy in the demon’s step as he polished the silver.

And then there were the occasions the demon enjoyed best, such as now when the Earl of Phantomhive stomped the head of a smuggler of counterfeit Funtom products into a shape no human skull should ever attain. Then his lord’s gaze fell on the demon, who was setting the crates of fraudulent goods alight, with a heat in his eyes that rivaled the flames that would soon consume the warehouse. After a night like this the demon knew his lord would be especially ruthless.

“I believe there is one last man attempting escape on the second floor, master,” Sebastian offered with a beatific smile. “Shall I…?” He left the offer unfinished as his lord’s preference for handling the more macabre aspects of their work was not subtle, and the villainous noble turned on his heel to stalk the remaining unfortunate.

Minutes later there was a luscious, piercing scream of terror and a body plummeted from the catwalk to land a bit too close to the demon for his taste. He arched an eyebrow as his gaze sailed upwards to find Lord Phantomhive smirking down at him over the railing.

“That left it rather close. This building will be a total conflagration momentarily,” he rebuked mildly as the earl sauntered down the walkway over his head.

“You’d either save me from the flames or let me roast. Either way is of no consequence,” Lord Phantomhive’s voice responded blithely in the echo chamber of the warehouse.

“Hm,” the demon mused as he set the last corpse alight then exited the warehouse after his master. He whistled sharply and a minute later the clop of the horses drawing the Phantomhive barouche sounded, and the carriage pulled into view at the far end of the block. The demon trailed behind the earl as his tyrant stalked down the avenue, cloak fluttering behind him, wafting rosewater in his wake along with the tinge of gore that hung over the dark noble tonight.

Baldroy drew the carriage to a halt and lit a cigarette as the black butler knelt to wipe the earl’s befouled shoes before offering a hand to the young caesar to assist him into the vehicle. 

“I’m weary of London, Bard. Stop for nothing and take us back to the estate,” Lord Phantomhive drawled as he ducked inside.

The servant traded looks with Sebastian, well aware they’d had plans to stay at least another week in the capital. The demon pressed his lips together in a silent grimace and shook his head at the driver. Baldroy glanced again from the demon to the carriage, the conflict on his face clear.

“...’less I hear it from m’lord, I can’t, Sebastian,” Baldroy turned his face away from the butler and snapped the reigns as the demon slammed the door to the carriage shut behind him.

“Lord, we’re to the see the Undertaker tomorrow,” Sebastian reminded him, red eyes glowing dimly in the dark as the carriage rattled down the cobblestones.

“Hang that detestable man,” the earl sniffed. “The city is more loathsome than usual this time of year. If I linger I’ll be pressed into attending some stupid ball or another.” The young lord’s cold blue eye flitted over the merry holiday makers on Marleybone, their arms full of parcels of inconsequential things, perhaps some Funtom items to lavish on their squalling offspring this Christmas.

“I’m afraid that it is too late to avoid the invitation,” Sebastian said quietly. The card arrived only that morning and it was one occasion the earl could not decline. “The Crown Prince’s son, George VI, is having a party. He will be turning 8 and made special request of the man responsible for his favorite toys.”

The noise of disgust the earl made at the news was undignified. That would not do.

“My lord, please,” the demon said silkily, moving sinuously across the carriage to place a knee on the seat next to his regent. “You cannot possibly decline. It is but one night, I’m confident you will survive the inconvenience.” Usually the butler waited for his master’s pleasure, but he decided initiative was a desirable trait this evening. Lord Phantomhive must attend the festivity, otherwise it would plunge all manner of the devil’s machinations into disarray. 

To that end, the demon wasn’t above using various means of persuasion, and he leaned in, fangs lengthening to nick at the earl’s ear.

Lord Phantomhive shuddered momentarily, blue eye widening a moment before it fluttered to half mast, and a hand rose to curl along the demon’s cheek.

“How blatant, Sebastian,” the earl murmured, but did not stop the demon as gloved fingers worked the cravat at the noble’s throat loose. “Using such means in an effort to sway my resolve.”

“Whatever do you mean, master?” Sebastian murmured as serrated teeth abraded the thin membrane over his lord’s pulse, skin so gossamer fine it ticked in time with the despot’s heartbeat. So tempting. “Perhaps I was riled to such actions by tonight’s activities. You are rather enchanting when beating a man to death.” 

“Your proclivities are sordid,” Lord Phantomhive muttered as the demon’s fingers slowly drew loose the tie of his eyepatch and it fluttered to the floor of the carriage. 

The butler swung a long leg over the earl’s hips to settle there, head nearly bumping the roof of the carriage as it trundled north. “As if you were not tempted to bend me over one of those crates in the warehouse and defile me whilst the blackguards’ bodies cooled at our feet and flames danced around us.”

The sharp inhale from Lord Phantomhive was all the confirmation the demon needed. 

The demon never lied to his master; likewise the perverse noble was unable to deny his true nature when Sebastian marvelled over it with such ardor, thin lips now feathering the earl’s ear. “I would have cherished the experience,” the demon breathed into that pale shell as clever fingers spidered down the earl’s body to deftly pluck open his trousers. 

“Monster,” Lord Phantomhive growled before his teeth sunk into the demon’s shoulder harshly, drawing a shiver from the black butler. 

“Quite right,” Sebastian agreed smoothly before raising his hand up to his mouth to sink his teeth into the tip of a glove. He relished the unwavering attention from his master’s violet and cobalt gaze as he languidly pulled the fine cotton off with his teeth and passed the hand with its dark contract over his throat, baring it for his lord’s view. “If only you’d acted, I might have splinters in my cheek from where you ground it against the rough wood, rutting into me as the dead’s sightless eyes lay on us.” 

Lord Phantomhive’s hand darted up, nails digging into the demon’s cheeks and wrenching his face away from where he’d been whispering such dark enticement against his temple. 

“Then I shall need to improvise.”

Sebastian found himself violently tipped backwards and when the back of his head caught on the opposite bench the crack of skull on wood had spots dancing in the edge of his vision momentarily. The demon moaned at the delectable pain and reached for his lord.

“Y’lright there, sir?” Baldroy’s voice queried from his perch outside, reign flicking over the horses’ rumps.

Sebastian did not respond as Lord Phantomhive’s hand held firm to the back of the demon’s head, keeping him pressed to the noble’s neck to muffle any noise as the devil’s long fingers curled around their lengths, stroking them together.

“I’ve determined it is too late to make for the estate tonight, after all, Bard,” the earl said lightly, nothing his voice giving hint as to the actions unfolding within the barouche. He muttered a curse when the demon bit him quite hard, just perfectly, and repaid Sebastian by scolding, “For that I’ll be the only one finding relief tonight. Now do it again.” 

Sebastian sighed with pleasure at the directive, more than willing to deny himself for as long as his master would wish it. He’d denied himself for years with Lord Phantomhive by now, and it had evolved into the most sublime torture he’d ever experienced.

“Make up ‘er bloody mind,” the chef grumbled quietly as he snapped the reins again and the carriage turned to make its circular way back to the London townhouse. When they arrived both noble and butler alighted from the carriage, perfectly put together. The light flush to the earl’s cheek could not be noted in the dark by any but the demon.

Days later the Earl of Phantomhive found himself swanning through the Crown Prince’s fete for his pugnacious brat, his mask of conviviality firmly in place before the greatest of the aristocracy. The entire affair was well appointed, the food exquisite, the decor tastefully executed, the entertainments acceptably palatable for the company, and the young tyrant was so deadly bored he greatly desired to expire on the spot.

Lord Phantomhive only made it through the aperitif by imagining in the most vivid detail how the dull, droning duke blathering at him might have any number of inexplicable and gory accidents before the night ended. Who gave a damn about this idiot’s ideas on the Funtom doll line, as his progeny was incredibly particular about her toys and may never be satisfied, despite owning the last 3 years’ full collections.

Thankfully the meal was buffet style so Lord Phantomhive was at his leisure to make excuses that he should speak with the host, so he might extricate himself from the conversation. He had no intention of actually greeting the Crown Prince until the last possible moment, as the cherubic face of the birthday boy clinging to his father’s hand, with his spritely yellow curls and too large pale eyes, made something in the earl recoil.

“For someone considered the most successful and inventive toy manufacturer in Europe you certainly dislike children, master.”

Only years of familiarity with the way something in the air seemed to shift in the presence of the black butler allowed Lord Phantomhive to be aware of Sebastian’s proximity before he actually spoke behind the earl.

“I do not dislike them, you insubordinate prat,” the Earl of Phantomhive responded severely before crooking his finger for his butler to quit skulking in the background. Sebastian presented him with a fine, gilded envelope, the earl’s gift to the child which would be presented to the father before the end of the evening. Of course, it could be lost and forgotten among the piles of other extravagances lavished on the little monarch this night, but an invitation to allow the Prince George VI to design his own doll for the Regency Limited Collection was something no other attendee could provide. 

“I find them...foreign.” The Earl of Phantomhive inclined his head at the demon whose hand elegantly sailed out to lift a glass of champagne from a passing tray to present to his lord. He'd only one rather near brush with the potential of a child, and it had bled away with Lady Phantomhive, taking with it the remnants of any sentiment left within the noble.

Sebastian lingered at his side, his face the picture of servile patience as he waited for his lord to elaborate.

“Had I been like George, or any of these other small creatures,” Lord Phantomhive noted, eyes flickering over the other children in attendance, most of whom followed the King’s grandson about like lemmings. “I might have used charcoal on the wall to draw my fancies, rather than the blood of my torturers. Played some obnoxious game of cowboys and natives at their age, not killing my first man.”

The black butler’s lips curled up slowly as his tyrant spoke of such horrors with all the casualness of the other attendees jibbering on about the latest fashion from Paris. 

“But you were not like these children, master.” Sebastian’s voice was soft reverence, memory taking him to the time Lord Phantomhive, still a youth, leaned over a lifeless blackmailer and daubed a bloody leering smile over the man’s twisted features, a darkly playful grin upon his young face to match it. It was such a fond recollection for the demon.

“No. No, I wasn’t,” Lord Phantomhive agree, tipping the glass to his lips and slowly draining it. “I might have spent a lifetime in simple ignorance of horror, had I been.”

The two tall, dark figures watched as the youngsters split in two lines and began to dance a clumsy promenade to the music. 

“To many that would seem a fine life, my lord,” Sebastian rejoined, taking the empty glass from his master.

His young lord made an irritated noise before he turned his face subtly in the butler’s direction. “Tch. Can you even fathom how paltry and obnoxiously oblivious life might have been? How insipidly dull?”

“You know I can, master,” the demon replied, his gloved fingers twitching around the delicate stem of the flute before he handed it off to another servant. “You’ve little notion how ecstatic it makes me that you understand such things.

“I live to delight you,” Lord Phantomhive replied, dry as the Sahara.

Several heads turned in silent shock at the impolitely loud laugh of the black butler, who lifted a hand to stifle his next titter as he bowed his head in apology to the aristocrats. His master allowed the first genuine smile, small it may be, of the evening to briefly crease his refined lips.

The earl moved, slowly stalking the perimeter of the party, and Sebastian kept pace half a step behind, as was proper. Lord Phantomhive nodded politely to his so-called peers on occasion, but every line of his frame radiated something the other party attendees could not quite touch upon, a certain, indefinable aura that kept them a few paces away. Except for the occasional drunk or hopeless imbecile, like the duke earlier. 

Sebastian, however, knew exactly what it was that unconsciously perturbed others about his master. Among the fluttering, melodious songbirds of Victorian high society, Lord Phantomhive was a peregrine, a predator of the most demonically refined order. As much as the lords and ladies present pretended to be so very evolved and sensible they were, at the end of the day, still animals. A few of their self-preservation instincts still functioned, despite their best efforts to quash them. 

The definite air of something dangerous emanated from Lord Phantomhive, subtly tainting the refined atmosphere of the soiree. While eyes subtly followed the handsome lord as he slowly navigated the circumference of the gathering, it was not only appreciation of his fine form and becoming face that dragged gazes to him. 

It was that base instinct coiled in the gut of every human that realized when it was being circled by a predator.

“These people,” the earl noted quietly, so only the black butler heard him, “They seem so content, so stupidly satisfied with their lot.” 

“Indeed, my lord. Most believe they knew the whys and wherefores of life, given they have such advantage over others,” the demon responded, eyes slipping sideways land on his master’s pale, alluring profile.

A contemptuous expression flitted over his despot’s features. “They assume they live in such rarified air because they merit it, either by dint of breeding or development of their talents and intellect. They could never truly hope to understand the truth of it all, not when so much has been given to them so easily.” 

The arrogant contempt in the man’s voice had goosebumps skittering over the demon’s skin and up the back of his neck. When his master was especially revolted by humanity his depravities tended to be more freely exercised when he was alone with the demon. The note in his voice promised a long night for Sebastian, indeed. 

The demon would not have it any other way; he planned on it.

“Quite true, master,” he murmured in assent, leaning in ever so slightly as they turned behind a large arrangement of florals that hid them from many of the attendees a few moments. Hellfire heated breath ghosted over the fine tendril of hair at the noble’s temple. “The live in the light, unaware of the shadows in which you reside.”

“Light is nothing without the lingering threat of darkness, Sebastian.” The earl’s fingers raised to wag condescendingly in the direction of the other guests and brushed fleetingly up the demon’s arm. 

The devil edged closer to his lord, despite the public setting; it was pointless to deny he was drawn in by Lord Phantomhive, a victim to the gravity spiralling out from the gloomy well within his villainous master.

Lord Phantomhive met his gaze boldly and his comely lips formed around prose of such feeling the demon felt something in his chest reverberate with it.

“And nothing throws into sharp relief the delicate, ephemeral nature of life quite like holding one in your hands. Then snuffing it out like a puff of breath to a candle’s flame.”

Only one who knew Lord Phantomhive as well as the demon would recognize the subtle expression on his face, translate the dark passion lighting his ocean deep eye.

The demon’s eyelids lowered to half mast and it took every bit of his formidable discipline to maintain his polite, public veneer.

“Master,” Sebastian murmured as they took another few steps, this time in the direction of their host. “Please refrain from saying such things in public. It would be unseemly for me to be in the presence of the Crown Prince in such a state of arousal.”

It was the Earl of Phantomhive’s dark, sonorous laugh that now disrupted the murmured conversations of the other guests. He did not bother to feign apology, instead turning his back on the party as a whole, cobalt eye darkly amused as it landed fully on his demon. “Aren’t you the foul creature tonight, Sebastian.”

“I try, my lord.”

Thankfully once the child of honor began to whine with tiredness the earl had his excuse to leave, and the demon quickly trundled Lord Phantomhive into the carriage and bade Baldroy return them to the townhouse post haste. Once they disembarked, Sebastian pressed some notes into the chef’s hand and bade him have an excellent evening out, and tomorrow off also, courtesy of the earl. 

It took next to no time at all for the rough former soldier to wish the demon a good evening and absent himself from the residence for the whole of the night. There was more than enough in his pocket to provide a fair tipple to himself and quite a few others.

Sebastian lit candles as they enter the residence and brought his lord a nightcap, which the earl sipped as he allowed the demon to divest him of his garments. The demon slowly combed out his long hair as the earl sat at the vanity unclad, watching his butler in the reflection, marred contract eye glowing dimly. Once the evening’s ablutions were complete the demon’s gloved fingers rested lightly on his master’s bare shoulders as he met Lord Phantomhive’s heavy gaze in the mirror.

One cotton clad fingertip tipped inward and feathered up the side of the earl’s neck; the silent despot gave no reply or protest, his only response a subtle upward tilt of his chin, his own hand rising to rest over the devil’s hidden contract and nudge him to continue.

“My lord,” the demon sighed, enchanted to be given such permission. His master never allowed Sebastian advantage here, but it seemed tonight he was in a charitable mood. The devil intended to make the absolute most of it.

Slim, gloved fingers spidered inward, fanning over the pale column of the noble’s throat, encircling until thumbs crossed in back and the demon’s middle fingers curled over the earl’s larynx. Lord Phantomhive’s chin tipped up further, and his head came to rest against the demon’s chest as he stood behind him.

“Master, you have my gratitude,” the demon murmured, enamoured, as he slowly tightened his grip, devilish gaze feasting on the gradual flush creeping up the noble’s bare chest to suffuse his cheeks, which eventually deepened to a charming subtle blue tinge on his lips as he was denied air. 

Just when Lord Phantomhive’s eyelids fluttered and mutilated eyes started to roll back Sebastian loosened his grip. The demon broke contact with the reflection and looked down the length of his lord’s body, pleased at the effect his touch had on the earl, given how hard he was. 

“You look so dashing in blue, master, I might not have stopped,” Sebastian said almost breathlessly as his lord’s teeth caught on one of the demon’s fingertips and pulled off a glove, exposing the mark that bound them together until the end.

Lord Phantomhive’s lips parted and the glove dropped to the floor at his feet as he leaned back into his black butler once more, head tilted to the side as he inspected the impressions of the demon’s fingers about his throat. 

“Either you will kill me or bring me to the brink and drag me back again…” he inhaled once, slowly as Sebastian’s fingers smoothed around his neck once more, “...either way I will be satisfied.”

The demon’s head slowly tipped to the side as he considered that, as he once again deprived his master, his slave, his entire purpose for being, of vital oxygen. He ardently admired the lines of his master’s unclothed body as it finally rebelled against the earl’s discipline and arched in subtle struggle. 

His master truly was as indifferent to his own mortality as he was every other human’s; for some reason that caused a sort of discomfort in the demon that, for once, he did not relish. 

Lord Phantomhive was so much more than a man, a mere human, now. He was a vital force, as certain as the tide, as immutable as gravity. His presence in the world filled it with such vivid hues, the red of roses and blood, that Sebastian found himself experiencing an unexpected twinge of melancholy at the notion that he could, in fact, squeeze just this much tighter and that would be the end of Ciel, Earl of Phantomhive. 

The vibrant brushstrokes of exquisite pleasure and sublime pain, ceaseless temptation and immutable torture would leave the demon’s existence; he would be full and sated, most likely for centuries...but after that?

Sebastian could not bear to contemplate how bland, how tedious existence would be without the Earl of Phantomhive. 

His fingers loosened and the gasp of his raja sucking in breath send a frisson of pleasure down the demon’s spine as his fingers eked up to stroke through Lord Phantomhive’s hair as the man shuddered, spine sagging back as more of his weight rested against the demon’s chest. 

A devilish notion trickled through Sebastian’s mind and must have shown on his face as Lord Phantomhive muttered, the noble’s hands creeping out to grab the edges of the vanity to steady himself as the rush of oxygen to his addled mind made him lusciously dizzy, “What’s that smirk for?”

“Oh…” Sebastian demurred, unable and unwilling to lie, but equally unwilling to share the whole of his thoughts at the moment, “Merely contemplating your offer.”

“What offer would that be?”

Quick as serpent strike the demon’s fingers clamped onto each of Lord Phantomhive’s wrists and wrenched them behind his head, inhuman strength keeping them there as the butler quickly used the silken tie of his master’s robe, dangling forgotten on the back of the chair, to secure them. 

“That I could kill you...or bring you to the brink and back again, master.”

Mismatched eyes widened in the mirror at the speed of the butler’s trussing, then the demon’s words. “You are bold tonight, Sebastian.”

“More so than usual, my lord?” the demon silkily inquired as he dropped his other glove and allowed his fingers to slither down the earl’s bare sides, enjoying the subtle play of expressions over his master’s face in the reflection: indignation at being tied and so readily, pleased at the black butler’s knowing touch, contemplative of the proposal...and admiring of the darkly delectable sight reflected back at him in the mirror.

Lord Phantomhive’s lithe, strong torso was elongated by the manner in which his hands were tied behind his head, lean muscles stretched and smooth in the flickering of singular candlelight, the pale face of his demonic servant seeming to float over his own, suspended in the gloom, the tempting sanguine sear of Sebastian’s gaze as it freely stared back.

“Come now, master, I believe you should be comfortable,” Sebastian said smoothly when the earl gave no reply, hooking two fingers in the silken tie that bound his lord’s wrists to tug him up and out of his chair. “At least to start.”

The demon gently prodded Lord Phantomhive across the room and to the bed, placing a heated hand on the cool expanse of the earl’s lower back to assist him in sitting against the pile of pillow propped to the headboard. 

The two met gazes for a moment, each one challenging before the earl remarked, “You’re overdressed.”

“It seems so,” the demon agreed amiably, a smile tipping up both corners of his mouth and he made no movement to immediately rectify the situation except to loosen his tie slowly. Black tipped fingers ran over the ebony length leisurely, drawing his master’s gaze to them. 

“Perhaps I should stuff this in your mouth to stopper any further needless observations of the obvious,” the demon offered. The suggestion was met with a scowl, but no actual words of refusal. 

One dark eyebrow arched at that silent concession...but no, he quite enjoyed hearing his master’s curse and murmur over him, not to mention the other delicious ways he may use that mouth.

Instead he simply tied his master’s bound wrists to the headboard with a speed that did not allow the earl of Phantomhive time to protest. He looked up and twisted his wrists experimentally to test the bond, then attempted to bring his arms down, muscles bunching under marble skin as he grunted once, softly, before sitting back with expression of passive acceptance. 

Lord Phantomhive did not order the demon to untie him. 

Sebastian marvelled his master truly did not seem to care one way or the other what might happen to him next. If the demon might, in fact, take full advantage of the scenario and end his life, or torture him in manner both delightful and despicable. 

The Earl of Phantomhive was a creature of conviction; he never said what he did not mean, he did not waver from his duty nor his path. 

He said his most ardent lust was to tear evil apart. 

He would eventually allow, even encourage, the evil that was his black butler to do the same to him.

What a beautiful ouroboros Lord Phantomhive was to Sebastian. Truly something to be admired, worshipped even.

When the demon’s fingers once again alighted on the earl they did not scratch nor pinch, constrict his airflow nor twist his hair. Instead the back of warm knuckles gently slid down the elegant plane of the villainous lord’s face as Sebastian kneeled up on the bed besides him.

The unexpected tenderness of the touch had his master jerking his face away in reflex, the man long ago fixed in his certainty he neither desired nor merited such softness. It did not dissuade the demon and his other hand rose to skim along his regent's other cheek, drawing his face back to center again as Sebastian’s mouth lowered to his.

The tyrant’s eyes widened at the delicacy of the kiss, and everything in him absolutely revolted at it. The demon’s gentle fingers firmed and kept his master’s face just as it was, despite his efforts to turn away. When Lord Phantomhive attempted to bite at his demon’s mouth, to force the blood to run, to ignite the frenzy that typically overtook them in such moments, Sebastian’s fingers dug into the hinge of his jaw and forced it open so his clever tongue might plumb its depths leisurely.

Lord Phantomhive’s body was a coiled line of tension the longer Sebastian’s mouth moved slowly against his and a grumble, something akin to a growl, was born in his chest.

“Ngh...I dislike that...stop it…” the earl managed to grit out, although the words were quickly swallowed up by the demon as his tongue stroking beguilingly along the noble’s.

“Mmmm...I can feel how clearly opposed you are to it,” Sebastian whispered as one hand left the earl’s face and danced down his torso to feather over his hard length. “Lying about the obvious does not suit you, master.”

Lord Phantomhive’s hips rolled up instinctively at the touch of the demon’s hellish hand, seeking a strong grip and satisfyingly firm friction. The demon tsked and his fingers skated away, prompting another irritated snarl from the constricted blueblood. 

“I’m in no mood for teasing, Sebastian!”

“Teasing implies there may be no follow through,” the demon counteroffered as he swung a long trouser clad leg over the naked lord’s hips and settled there, looking down at him with a bemused expression. “And I have every intention of giving ...and receiving the fullest satisfaction tonight.” 

The demon swayed back, fingers leaving the Earl of Phantomhive’s face to land on his own chest, finger slowly plucking open his coat, the long tails of which teased over his dictator’s bare thighs.

“This delay is vexing,” his imperious tyrant scolded, his expression every bit as commanding as when he delivered final judgement of the most savage manner upon lowlifes and miscreants. He might be entirely nude and tied to an ornate headboard, his servant seated impertinently upon his lap, but the Earl of Phantomhive had not acted as though he was at disadvantage since he was 10.

“What you call delay I prefer to rename something less petulant, master.” The demon’s fingers moved once more, parting his slate waistcoat then his shirt to reveal the supple planes and valleys of his torso to his master’s gaze under the light of the sole candle flickering on the nightstand. 

“You’ve said I am a comely creature. Does the sight not please you? I am specifically made to suit your every whim and need.” 

Pale hands, marred only by the blasphemous contract mark slid up the demon’s stomach to his chest, inviting eyes to follow them, memorize the path and desire to journey it oneself.

“What would please me is to ruin that unmarked flesh with my teeth!” Lord Phantomhive spat, his neck craning forward as though he might burst free of his bonds and fall upon the demon in savagery.

The silk binds strained but did not part.

“You really should practice more creativity, master. Much as I enjoy the intimacy of such bites,” the demon arched forward again, a reed in the wind, just out of reach of the noble’s mouth. “I would not be opposed if you plied the whip to me again.” That caught the earl’s attention and scowling lips ticked up momentarily at the notion.

“Continue to tantalize like this and you’ll receive your wish soon enough,” he threatened, which did nothing but prompt the demon to continue his slow, unbearably gentle torment. The more furious his master the greater his punishment later.

Where the titled noble’s mouth would have left impressions of teeth and blood welling underneath bruises or breaking through the skin to trail lush sanguine rivers over white flesh, Sebastian’s mouth tread a different trail.

Twist though he might, Lord Phantomhive could not escape the demon’s mouth as it landed on his neck, sliding slow and sensual over the thready leap of his pulse. 

The earl cursed in displeasure and outrage as the lack of fingernail drags along his torso as the demon’s hands flattened and smoothed down, admiring the bunch and release of the muscles there with firm, steady pressure. 

The litany of insults only grew more inventive as the demon butler slowly slid back, the fine fabric of his clothing dragging over the earl’s bare skin, his mouth taking a meandering path down his ruler’s body.

Sebastian’s lips slowly closed over a nipple, soft and tender before his tongue slicked a lazy, sensual circuit over the nub, and the shudder of revulsion that raced through the earl provoked him to attempt to kick the demon.

“Don’t touch me like some besotted lover!” he snapped, even as Sebastian used one hand to grab his knee and pin it to the mattress.

“You say that but your body clearly responds,” the demon insisted, a wicked tilt to his lips appearing before his mouth softened again as it travelled the ripple of his master’s ribs. 

“If you cut me purposefully or by accident I still bleed,” Lord Phantomhive protested, “It is biology!”

“Why would you put such a violent notion in my head, master?” the demon said in a low, breathy manner that made the earl’s skin prickle unpleasantly. “When all I desire is to make love to you, quite gently and thoroughly.” Sebastian’s voice, filled with what sounded like soft affection, made every instinct in the noble rebel.

“Stop that!” the earl hissed, teeth bared. “It’s revolting!”

The demon’s tongue languidly outlined the dip of the earl’s navel before lazily tracking over the sharp V-crease of his hip, ruby eyes glimmering up the length of his master’s body. “Is that an order?”

Lord Phantomhive’s violet eye flashed in response. “Yes! It is an order, Sebastian! I want you to hurt me!”

The demon’s eyes fluttered, the garnet gems of his gaze disappearing for a moment in the dimness of the room before sparking to life once more and, just before his tongue rolled in an unhurried wave over the tip of his master’s manhood, he whispered.

“I **am** hurting you, master.” 

Then he took him in his mouth and suckled him slow and gentle.

Lord Phantomhive’s eyes widened at the realization that torture had endless variations and this one was especially cruel. “You bastard!”

He twisted his hands again, pulling at the silken tie that bound his wrists in an increasingly determined effort to get free as Sebastian continued to touch him in ways that made his skin crawl at the physical sensation and his passions awaken to how devious, how insidious, his black butler truly was. 

How the earl would punish him later! Tear into him so thoroughly and completely the very memory of these despicably tender touches would be washed away in in a veritable flood of flayed nerves and weeping wounds.

The demon’s soft hair tickled the inside of the blueblood’s thigh as he glared down at Sebastian, who impishly winked as thin, devilishly clever lips slid down his caesar's firm length. 

However frustratingly slow and soft the the devil was, the demon was correct; the earl’s body responded; even if his passions were not ignited in the searing manner of their other encounters. It infuriated the Earl of Phantomhive.

“You pernicious shit! Ugh...firm your mouth...this softness turns my stomach!” Lord Phantomhive demanded, and all he received for it was the demon humming quietly in pleasure at his master’s temper unfurling with each slow sink of Sebastian’s handsome face down his shaft.

How perverse his master was, Sebastian marvelled as he delicately trailed fingers along the outside of the earl’s thighs before hooking them over his shoulders, and keeping them there with immoveable hands, in opposition to lord’s profane protests. 

So many of the demon’s previous contracts had desired such soft embraces, begged for the demon to pleasure them in ways that allowed them to pretend the unholy creature held genuine emotion for them, some semblance of affection it transmitted with each slow tantalization. All self-deluded fools.

His Lord Phantomhive, the only **true** master Sebastian had ever served, reviled every tender thing in the world, sneered at it and found it repugnant to his sensibilities. Only the brutal harshness of experience, in all its gory machinations, life’s eternal struggle, its innate indifference to immature notions like fairness, satisfied the Earl of Phantomhive. 

Not since he was but a child had anything of true significance been gentle or easy for Ciel, Earl of Phantomhive, genteel luxuries aside, and he had grown into a regal and deadly beast, a fine blade sharpened against the whetstone of the demon’s tutelage.

Which made the demon’s restrained and temperate caresses all the more torturous to the incensed noble, who twisted and writhed and swore in a vain effort to goad Sebastian into lavishing him with the sort of pain he preferred. 

No, he needed!

Anything but this excruciatingly tender anguish that could not be alleviated by any pill or physician's succor!

“Damn you...S-Sebastian,” the earl raged, his breath catching in his throat when the devil’s comely lips sank slowly down his length again and the unholy creature swallowed then moaned around him. 

“You complete...vile...bastard.”

Every word seemed to be forced out of the increasingly distraught aristocrat with each labored gasp the longer the black butler tormented him with every loathsome, soft caress, each delicately sensitive slide of hands along the earl’s sides, every worshipful lave of his tongue undulating along his member.

The demon eventually pulled away when he was satisfied that, despite his ever louder protests, his master was well and truly aroused to the point it appeared nearly painful. 

The misery in his marred eyes was quite clear to the demon, and the devil slithered up to lavish another softe vexation on his master’s mouth, fingers pressing once more into his jaw to keep his mouth open and plaint so as to prevent him from turning the kiss ferocious.

“Master,” Sebastian practically cooed and Lord Phantomhive attempted to wrench his face away once more in disgust. “You’ve no notion how exquisite your vain pleas for respite are to my ears.” He licked slowly into his master’s mouth, humming with pleasure at the taste of Lord’ Phantomhive’s very essence on his breath that poured into the demon with every outraged gasp.

Sebastian slid off the bed and made a point to take his time removing his clothing, one article at a time, lingering to allow each piece to fall to the floor with a soft suss of fabric. He’d not had been afforded opportunity to fully disrobe before Lord Phantomhive before, each of their encounters generally perpetrated with his trousers simply yanked down or off, heedless of the rest of his state of dress.

But tonight he would...oh, he would indulge and breach every unspoken protocol of their intimacy!

The violation of these silently drawn borderlines, the violent earl’s furious reaction to each trespass, stoked the flames of ardor in the demon ever higher. When he once again crawled over Lord Phantomhive he did so sinuously, slithering up the tyrant’s body with malicious intent, the heated, flawless flesh of the black butler whispering over every inch of the irate highborn.

He sat up again, his unclad form in full view of his master, all revealed before his Lord, and Sebastian preened under the obvious appreciation that lurked in Lord Phantomhive’s eyes, despite his anger at the demon’s persistence in touching him so lovingly.

“Master,” Sebastian sussed the title out on a sigh as pale hands once again roamed over his own deliberately perfected form, hips rolling slowly in a serpentine temptation that had Lord Phantomhive arching his neck, his chest, forward in an attempt to make contact or, more likely, to snap at the demon who undulated just out of reach.

“Untie me, Sebastian,” the earl said firmly, eyes narrowing as he observed the demon’s fine, tempting body. 

“Is that an order?”

“Yes.”

The devil grinned and leaned in, white, long fingers tickling up the underside of the despot’s arm as it went, his lips gliding up the noble’s creamy neck, trickling over his smooth cheek, grazing his ear before his tongue slid out to trace along the lobe.

“No.”

Lord Phantomhive jerked in his bonds. “What do you mean no!? That is an order, Sebastian!”

The demon chuckled and sat back once more, his fingers now holding a clear vial that he waggled at his prisoner. “I have equal ownership of our contract now, remember? And tonight, I intend to-” he tipped the vial and the sweet scent of almond oil competed with the tinge of roses in the air, “to fully own you.” 

“You son of a-!” The curse was stoppered by the demon’s kiss once more, which was then interrupted by a moan as Sebastian reached behind himself and pressed a finger slowly into his own body.

It was, of course, not very arousing to the demon to do so this himself. What truly set the ichor in his veins ablaze was the entirely conflicted expression of confusion, desire, and animosity leveled at him by his handsome lord as the demon reeled back once more and proceeded to provide Lord Phantomhive with a show.

The noble’s fingers clenched over and over into fists and he watched his black butler finger himself open, head canted back with a sigh when he sunk two fingers in, then his sublime face lolled forward, inky strands falling into his eyes, as his hips rolled and the devil’s cock slid along his master’s.

“Sebastian! Release me!” the earl shouted.

“No,” the demon moaned as he rocked back on 3 fingers now, the noises he made becoming increasingly indecent the more his lord shouted and attempted to twist under him, to bring up a leg to either kick him off or pull him within reach. Sebastian planted his free hand on his master’s chest to keep him down, long, pale fingers splayed as he kneeled over him, working his body open in a way that served no point except to drag out the torment, the enticement, to rile up his lord so that when he was, inevitably, free his full wrath would fall upon the demon.

Sebastian would then be in the closest approximation of Heaven a demon may ever hope for.

When the demon felt his tyrant was sufficiently incensed and nearly frantic with frustration and ire, Sebastian edged in once more to kiss Lord Phantomhive again, moaning with satisfaction when once again the man attempted to bite.

When the demon pulled back after a quite thorough application of tongue, the earl actually spat at him.

Sebastian smiled dreamily as his fingers swiped through the saliva dripping down his cheek. His lord’s heavy disdain intoxicated him nearly as much as Phantomhive blood on his tongue, and the demon licked his fingers luxuriously as he slowly impaled himself on his master’s firm length.

Against his every effort at self-discipline and restraint, Lord Phantomhive could not help the groan of gratification at the silken, clutching slide of Sebastian’s body. “You...you bloody monstrosity,” the earl moaned as Sebastian began to rock against him, two hands now firmly planted on the noble’s chest as the devil’s hips snaked back and forth.

“The best one you know,” the demon practically purred, eyes alight as he bounced gently, once, twice, and the delicious soft slap of skin to skin made him shiver. “Oh, this feels divine.” The demon nearly sniggered to himself, and his clever master did not miss it, even if his gaze blurred and the previously tight, furious line of his mouth slackened as he groaned. 

“Like you know a thing about…d-divinity...you shit. Faster, damn you!”

Sebastian reached out a finger to trace over those lips. “Such awful, low language, my lord, when all I wish is to deliver you to transports of delight.” To that end the demon moved his hips in tight swivels, grinding down on Lord Phantomhive’s deliciously thick manhood. 

“Mmm, well if you’re not enjoying yourself, my lord, I shall simply have to do so for both of us.” 

The demon wrapped a hand around himself and sighed as he stroked in counterpoint to his motion. Each delectable slide down to fill himself was matched by smooth stroke up. Every time he rose on his knees until the plummy head of his master’s cock nearly left him, elegant fingers slide down to squeeze. 

Over and over again, Sebastian rolled, savoring the contortions of Lord Phantomhive’s lovely features as he struggled against the inevitably rising swell of pleasure the demon stripped out of him against his will, in defiance of all his established proclivities and wants. 

Sebastian stared down at his overlord and the sweat dotting his upper lip, trailing down on temple as the man shook his head, as though to deny the gratifying clench of his demon, his violet contract mark flashing bright enough to nearly light the room. His other eye was glazed and nearly unseeing, even if it was fixed in the demon’s direction. 

“Se-Sebastian…you bloody incubus...harder... ” His master never begged, not once, not ever to the demon. Even as his voice fractured with a gasp of the demon’s name at a particularly delectable grind and his hips attempted to rise to meet Sebastian’s heated clutch, he was never anything but proud, arrogant, and demanding, even when it seemed he had absolutely no control over the situation. Sebastian shoved his master’s hips down with a firm rock that smacked his buttocks against his lord’s hard thighs and left both of them moaning.

Truth be told, the demon felt his own discipline slipping and, despite his own preference for more violently passionate pleasures, nearly lost his composure when his master’s eyes refocused and his narrow, pink tongue looped out to swipe messily over his lips, tempting the demon to collapse forward once more to kiss him. 

It was only a firm hand in the earl’s hair that prevented him from turning his face away or attempting to snag his teeth on the demon’s lip or cheek as Sebastian rode him faster, both of them now panting unevenly with each too gentle collision of their bodies.

When his master’s breathing grew jagged with his impending release a slurred oath was mumbled into the demon’s mouth, “H-hate you…’Bastian…” 

Further invectives were cut off when the earl’s body arched harshly, his arms pulled into a rigid, unnatural line over his head that strained sinew and muscle and provided the tinge of pain required to push him over the edge. Lord Phantomhive’s eyes rolled back in his head with his orgasm, his breathing stuttering with each resentful cry as the demon mercilessly rode him in slow undulations.

“Haaa…” the demon panted, his hands coming up to stroke almost sweetly through sweaty cobalt hair, “I know, master.” That was the wondrous thing about his master, he never lied. Not to Sebastian. Of course, he may not tell the whole of the truth either. 

Yes, Lord Phantomhive hated the demon, but he did not hate him entirely. When they first contracted the little earl has demanded three things: that the demon execute his every order without fail, that he never lie to him, and that he always remain by his side. 

Only the first order was truly necessary to assist the dark noble in his personal vengeance, then later on his in never ending crusade to stamp out each injustice that crossed his gaze. The last two...well, this was why the Earl of Phantomhive could never fully loathe his demon.

And despite his master’s oath, the demon knew Lord Phantomhive had not fully reviled the experience just now either. Sebastian peered down at his despot’s peerless visage and admired the slackness of his mouth as he panted to regain his breath, the flutter of long eyelashes as he descended from the heights of pleasure, the quick dash of the tip of his tongue over his tenderly abused lips.

When the demon’s hips moved languidly once more the noise of protest the earl made at his sensitivity made the devil smile, slow and curling. 

“It seems you did enjoy that after all, at least a little.”

The fierce glare Lord Phantomhive gave him erased any hint of lassitude from his features. “Insufferable smugness is not attractive.”

“Oh, I disagree,” the demon replied. “I’ve not met a human who wasn’t arrogant; it is why I find them so interesting. It is particularly becoming on you, my lord.” The demon’s fingers ceased their play through Lord Phantomhive’s long hair and trailed along his cheek, then his neck, down his chest, lightly enough the aristocrat favor him with another displeased look. “I find myself...moved, master.” The demon smirked down at him and snaked his hips slowly again, dragging another grunt from the earl pinned beneath him.

“You’ll find yourself disappointed if you think I’ll rise to the occasion again with these odious soft touches, Sebastian,” Lord Phantomhive muttered and his fingers flexed and curled into fists above the silk tie keeping his hands bound over his head.

The demon slowly tipped his head to the side, a slim finger touched to his lower lip before it journey down his body, outlining the subtle play of pale muscles under the candlelight; the villainous earl’s gaze followed it, perhaps against his will. 

“Do not worry, master, I shall not need you to.” Sebastian’s fingertip alighted on his own obvious hardness, slipping through the pearly bead of wetness at the tip then dragging it down his length. His other hand reached out, dancing along the bedside table to pluck the candle from its stand.

“What do you m-MMM!” Lord Phantomhive’s inquiry was cut short by a sharp gasp then a pleasured hum when the first spill of hot wax fell to gravity and landed on his chest.

“Magnificent, master,” Sebastian drawled, ruby gaze fixed on his lord’s face, “Your revulsion for sweetness.” Another drop landed, right of the first, another, and a slow scorching track began to march across the earl’s flawless skin. “How viciously you fight against any sentimental touch.” 

A low moan trickled from the earl and his previously knotted fingers relaxed. 

“You despise that which any other human would beg for, crave to the depths of their soul.” Another burning drop landed, this time on a nipple and Lord Phantomhive jerked in his bonds, violet eye flashing. 

“Yes,” his caesar hissed, either in agreement with the butler’s compliment or approval for the pain he was gifted, it mattered little. The transformation of Lord Phantomhive’s face from reluctant enjoyment a few minutes ago to eager relish now was a marvel to the demon. 

“Give me an order,” Sebastian entreated, inhuman resonance lacing his voice, as another burning trickle traced down the earl’s chest. The demon shivered when his garnet gaze connected with his master’s disfigured stare and he thought he glimpsed hellfire within. “Please.“

Lord Phantomhive’s spine arched in a sublime curve at the demon’s appeal, offering himself up for another spill of searing wax. 

“More, Sebastian,” Lord Phantomhive demanded with an ecstatic groan as the next sizzle of wax pricked his skin, setting nerves alight. His voice firmed with each new starburst of pain. “Give me...more...everything, I want it all!”

“Yes, my lord,” the demon acquiesced joyously and this time, when he dipped down to press his lips to the earl’s, he happily accepted the hard clench of teeth in his lower lip. 

Each now caustic touch from the demon, each nick of his teeth, every exacting rake of black nails along to the shadowy noble’s sides, each new drop of affliction drizzled over Lord Phantomhive had the man straining towards the demon for more...more…more.

“Be greedy, master,” the demon encouraged, fingers moving to twist into cobalt hair and yank Lord Phantomhive’s head back until it banged on the headboard, his throat bared, and the earl did not flinch when the demon lowered his mouth to it. Heated lips pressed firm and sure, the tips of serrated teeth scraped as blood was drawn to the surface to purple over and weave among the necklace of the demon's handprints around the pale column. “I will provide.”

The demon slithered up the bed to kneel over his master’s chest and shoved his hard shaft between his tyrants lip’s. Wrenching fingers curled into dark hair to force his mouth down until Sebastian moaned in gratification, a darkly musical counterpoint to the sound of the earl choking. 

Each rough jolt of the demon’s hips banged the dark, desperate noble’s head against the headboard until he provided a small mercy and tugged a pillow up. It would not do to concuss his master. Well, at least not tonight.

Sebastian rained lascivious praise down on his master’s regal head as he rode his mouth, murmured scandalous adoration over how he looked with tears pricking at the corners of his disfigured eyes as he struggled for breath, for control, which he eventually conceded with a choked groan and his head fell back against the pillows. Sebastian tilted the candle scald his lord’s arms, his wrists . The loud groan of dark satisfaction from his master reverberated down the demon’s length and prompted Sebastian’s sinuous form to ferocious movement and himself ever deeper until he felt the plush press of the Earl of Phantomhive’s nose, his chin against the demon’s flesh. 

“This mouth...I relish every insult it gives voice,” Sebastian moaned when his lord’s teeth came into play and dragged excruciatingly over his length. “Loathe me….lavish me with...with your...d-disdain….yes…master!” At a particularly brutal scrape the demon’s fingers tugged hard enough to drag a few strands from Lord Phantomhive’s scalp.

The aristocrat’s feet, his legs, slid jerkily, restlessly along smooth sheets as he choked and writhed under the devil, and Sebastian’s carmine gaze rose to the heavens. The smirk on his face sublime as he feverishly fantasized God himself was offended at the sight of their unholy joining. 

When it became clear his despot was dizzy, the earl’s breath whittled down to harsh inhalation through his nose, and each exhale prompted another glimmer of water at the corners of his eyes that never fell, the demon backed off. He tracked ebony, sharp fingers down Lord Phantomhive's body. Hellishly clever hands raised welts and, thin razored slices on his lord’s torso he maneuvered down to wriggle between the earl’s legs. 

The wood of the headboard creaked when Lord Phantomhive pulled again at his bind again, the taut line of his arms bent over his head tempting enough to prompt the demon to stretch his hand out and tip the candle once more. Searing white drops spattered his hands, blistered fingertips. 

The demon’s gaze glittered as he admired his lord’s reaction to every granted injury, the exultant shout that burst from his lips with each new affliction. 

The earl’s face turned into one side, saliva dripping down his chin as white teeth sought flesh and muscle as the man bit into his own arm the next time his skin seared.. 

The demon took his time plying the candle to Lord Phantomhive’s long form, enjoying the subtle variations in reaction to when a drip of wax landed on his stomach, how it hollowed with a sharp inhale. The next line drizzled down the crease of his hip and the noble slowly twisted in his bonds. Another fevered line drawn over his thigh prompted legs to bracket the demon and cool calves pressed against hellfire heated flanks. When the demon roughly scraped away a line of cooled wax and his teeth followed over the red welt rising there, his tyrant’s encouragements grew ever louder.

And when the demon roughly pressed two hastily oil anointed, black tipped fingers into his master’s body, the hiss at the intrusion was quickly followed by a string of syllables that eventually organized themselves into the demon’s name.

“Se-Sebas-tian,” leaked from between clenched teeth until the demon’s tongue pried them open as his hand worked viciously between the earl’s legs, opening him up in a manner that would have made any other cry out for patience, for gentleness. No protest fell from the noble’s lips, if anything the more torturous the demon’s strokes the higher Lord Phantomhive’s ardor was stoked.

The black butler would not have had it in any other fashion.

Tonight, Sebastian trespassed every remaining boundary drawn between master and servant, ruler and slave, blurred the lines between the two until they were erased. 

When the demon paused to savor the moment, garnet eyes feasting on the utterly debauched sight below him, his master spread out before him a bruised and scratched and scorched feast, the Earl of Phantomhive panted impatiently.

“Do it, demon! I loathe delay...do your worst...your very best.” The blasphemous desire on the demon’s face was reflected back him by the shadowy elation in the earl’s marred eyes. Lord Phantomhive licked his split lip and arched up as best his bonds allowed. “Consume me in every conceivable way, Sebastian.”

“Yes, my lord.” The candle puffed out and dropped, the room fell to darkness, except for the crimson glimmer of the demon’s gaze lighting the room with hellfire.

When Sebastian entered his master the motion was sharp and quick and knocked the air from the earl’s lungs in a loud gasp. The demon’s head canted back in ecstasy. 

Tonight the Earl of Phantomhive was finally, entirely, his in every way, body and soul. 

The bed frame shook with the force of each thrust, knocking against the wall, and the rattle of heavy wood was a delicious counterpoint to the rough shouts of the master of the house. The demon’s inhuman strength bore down on the Earl of Phantomhive as the demon’s fiery white hands branded his lord’s hips, hauling his master lewdly over his spread thighs as he slid into him again with a sharp lunge.

Lord Phantomhive groaned when it felt his bones might be crushed to powder under his black butler’s fierce embrace, yet he hitched his legs higher, strong muscles clenching around the demon’s waist.

“The devil...the devil is in me…” he panted, staring up at Sebastian, “I always knew it...I...I adore it so...harder!”

When Sebastian obeyed, as he always would when it truly mattered, a triumphant shout burst from the earl as the demon’s cock skirted over the sweetest of spaces within. 

“Again...again...again...until I die...Se-Sebastian!” he ordered between harsh exhales, his expression wild and unrestrained and fixated on the demon looming over him.

“Yes, master!” the demon groaned unabashedly as he draped himself over his lord, his slave, the center of his existence, hips working like a piston, the sharp snap of bare, sweat slicked skin colliding deliciously profane in the otherwise quiet house. 

The demon’s teeth sunk into the underside of one of the earl’s bound up arms, then dragged down to litter bruising, bleeding marks across his chest, and onyx nails dug into elegant hips until rivers of red marred the pristine sheets strewn about them in wreckage.

The demon thought he could not ask for anything more from this night, that there was not a single other thing he could possibly desire in his existence. 

He was gloriously proven wrong by his master once again.

A creak of wood, then a splintering snap, and Lord Phantomhive’s lean, powerful arms lashed down, the silken tie fluttering between still tightly bound wrists. His hands gripped one of the demon’s and dragged Sebastian’s blasphemous touch to to his throat. When the demon gripped, when he bore down, the ghastly smile that graced his master’s face was glorious, nearly angelic in its grim sincerity. 

The demon continued to rut furiously, both his hands now around his master’s throat, and his precious lord’s fingers rose again, as ivory birds winging across the night sky, and looped over Sebastian’s head, his neck, and dragged him down.

Increasingly blue lips worked over the demon’s face, tracking down one cheek, his pointed chin, to land on his mouth. With his last few gasps Ciel, Earl of Phantomhive breathed into the kiss, infusing Sebastian’s every sense with the sumptuousness of his soul, the intoxicating liqueur of his life.

The demon lost himself utterly, drowning in it, drinking in every aspect of the soul he could reach. Wisps of impossibly delectable flavor infused his master’s breath, laced into his skin as Sebastian licked over it, his essence permeating every drop of sweat that rolled down cooling skin, every congealing drop of blood smeared on his body, every strand of hair which now moved gently only with each of the demon’s slow exhales as he hovered over his master’s unmoving form.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The hall clock struck 4 and the demon did not note it. The only thing that held Sebastian's attention was Lord Phantomhive’s still body curled into the sheets at the demon’s side. His fingers journey to fit neatly here, there, over bruises along a hard hip, along narrow bands of purple about wrists, languidly tracing over dark imprints fanned around the noble’s neck. 

The devil’s hand lingered there, all his formidable concentration narrowed down to the delicate, ephemeral tic of his master’s heartbeat. 

Slow.

Steady.

Unceasing.

“More...you said you want it all.” Sebastian mused softly, “Your reach will never exceed your grasp, not while I am with you. And I will be with you. I will be with you until the end.”

Everything. That is what his master had demanded.

Yes.

Sebastian would give Ciel, Earl of Phantomhive **_everything_**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know George VI and Ciel Phantomhive were both born on December 14, only 20 years apart? Now you do.


	10. His Master, Eternal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally FINALLY finished. This story was mostly written in a crazy burst of inspiration on a sick day from work in September; I wrote nearly 80% of it in around 48 hours. But as I carved it into chapters and edited and discussed it with a fellow Black Butler fan it morphed and turned into something darker, more opulent, and much more enjoyably sadistic than I'd originally planned. I hope you're happy...and miserable just like them and me!
> 
> Please comment, it might prompt me to write another Black Butler fic one day; although right now I feel like this might be the best worst thing I've written.

The demon passed the Tower Bridge, easily slipping through the throngs crowding St. Katherine’s docks. Sailors’ voices crowed and cursed as cargo was unloaded. Vendors’ calls sailed over the din, imploring a tuppence for roasted chestnuts. 

“Oy, ‘andsome,” a flaxen haired slattern cooed from an open doorway. “Fancy some company for th’ ‘oliday?”

Sebastian touched his fingers to the brim of his top hat with a polite, “Careful, miss, or you may catch your death.” The whore’s eyes widened at the consideration, one she rarely received. She waved him off with a smile that was not quite as contrived as the ones she generally cast into the street.

Sebastian slipped through the throngs of seasonal merrymakers up Vaughn Way, then Leman, before turning to venture down avenues much less well travelled. Here the number of people out and about thinned, and the streets narrowed to little more than alleys, turning in on themselves like a serpent consuming its tail. Although the bloody murderer who’d stalked these paths disappeared years ago the spectre of the Ripper still lingered, casting a pall over the unfortunates of Whitechapel. They did not walk, they scurried as rats, eyes darting about suspiciously at every other figure on the street.

Eyes followed the tall, elegant form of the black butler as he journeyed the twisting pathways deeper into one of the darker hearts of the empire. The demon was quite aware his presence drew attention; it generally did, but more so in such a dank and impoverished parish. His eyes flicked up at the discordant peel of a church bell from St. Mary Matfelon, and the wretch who’d quietly trailed a dozen yards back of the dark figure’s wake darted forward, seeking to take advantage of the foolish gentleman who’d wandered where he did not belong.

The short, sharp cry that pierced the night air did not merit more than a raised eyebrow from the street’s occupants; not a shutter opened to inspect its source. The ruffians who stumbled down the alley moments later did little more than cast a quick glance into the narrow alcove where the demon crouched over the would-be thief, the man’s own knife plunged deep into his shoulder, before they drunkenly swerved to the other side of the street and went on their way.

“You are quite fortunate, my good sir,” Sebastian mused lightly, an genial smile teasing at the corners of his mouth. “I’m of a mind to cut your throat, but arterial spray is difficult to avoid, and I’d rather not waste time returning home for a clean coat. You see, I’m quite busy this evening.”

The thief’s eyes grew round above the demon’s fingers clamped over his mouth, the threat delivered with the casualness of a remark upon the miserable weather.

“Happy Christmas,” the demon said blithely and twisted the knife one last time to viciously screw it into the wretch’s shoulder, before he stood and patted his coat as though to remove any trace of the man’s presence from his person before he strode away. On he went, taking each twist and turn with confidence, secure in the knowledge he was the apex predator among the hungry beasts that roamed these streets tonight. 

When Sebastian finally drew to a stop, crimson eyes flicking up to regard the crooked sign over a familiar door, he took a moment to consider his actions. He did not doubt his intended course, only that in order to achieve his goal he would likely be obliged to do some things that offended the butler’s aesthetic he’d not only developed but come to nearly cherish.

Ah, well, not all things a demon sought were neatly obtained; some messes were unavoidable. As long as the desired result was realized, Sebastian would deem every effort worthwhile.

He pushed open the creaking door and slipped inside, silent as a shadow, unholy eyes glimmering in the gloom.

“No leash nor collar. A stray has wandered in,” a creaky voice trickled from the dark and Sebastian’s gaze swung around in time to watch a pale hand spider delicately over the edge of a casket sitting on a table.

“Undertaker.”

“It speaks, and without its master’s prompting. What an interesting mutt,” the crazed mortician tittered as he slowly sat up, sheet of silvery hair cascading down his back to spill over one side of the coffin.

The demon stood still as Undertaker sinuously extricated himself from his apparent bed. One pointed boot touched lightly down to the stone floor, followed by a suss of heavy fabric that whispered in the otherwise quiet room. _Momento mori_ jingled musically as he turned to peer at his visitor.

“The little earl too busy to ask favor himself, hm? He’s grown quite rude,” the man tsked as he wagged one skeletal finger at the black butler.

“My lord did not send me. I have come of my own accord and for my own purpose.”

The hair that forever hung in Undertaker’s face shifted at the subtle jerk of his head, and a brief flicker of vivid green pierced the gloom before it vanished behind the pale curtain once more. 

“Neh heh eh,” he chuckled. “You’ve no purpose but his, a doll he moves about.”

Sebastian stepped forward, well within any boundary of personal space people generally kept around Undertaker. It was not only the man’s clear madness but a definite pall of something more than death hanging over him that kept others at more than arm’s distance. But not the demon.  


“If you know so much then you know I do not lie. Neither to Lord Phantomhive nor about him. I am both unable and unwilling.”

Something akin to a smirk tugged at the parchment thin skin of Undertaker’s mouth. “You sound so serious, butler.”

“Deadly so.”

The smirk slid into a grimace as Undertaker turned away, the edge of his cloak whisking against the demon’s shins. “Puns. Such low humor. You know the price for my assistance.” The pale figure flung himself into the chair behind his desk, legs hung impertinently over one arm, as long black nails **tap tap tapped** on wood.

The demon face was blank as slate. “While you may not find my request humorous, I’m confident you will be adequately entertained by the reason.”

“Neh! Such build up! The punchline better split my sides. I’d like more stitches just here.” A black nailed finger traced along the heavy drape of the woolen coat that swathed the pale figure.

The black butler stood before Undertaker, thin lips moving subtly in the flickering light of the single candle in the room, his proposal pouring out him to fill the space between them. After a few moments ebony nails slowed then ceased their slow drumming and the mortician’s languorous pose shifted to rigidity as bony fingers curled under his chin.

Green glinted once more as Undertaker’s gaze narrowed on the demon through a part in his hair. As the demon’s smooth, cultivated voice murmured the madman’s mouth began to pull and stretch until a rictus grin twisted his face into something inhuman.

The demon ceased speaking finally, and a white gloved hand rose elegantly in a subtle sweep towards the spectral figure at the desk, a silent entreaty for Undertaker to consider Sebastian’s words.

Silence stretched between them as ruby eyes met chartreuse, the only sound the monotonous tick of the mantle clock and the occasional creak of the ancient structure over their heads. Sebastian was immovable as stone beneath Undertaker’s piercing gaze. 

Until the man shrieked so loudly the demon blinked.. 

Such madness in that sound. 

Had the devilish manservant possessed anything resembling human emotions he might have felt a trickle of unease. But as he was not human, thankfully, he was free of such petty sensations and was able to return a bland smile as Undertaker’s cackles grew ever louder. 

It might have been disturbing, given the man had not yet moved, the only shift to his figure his mouth stretched unnaturally wide to accommodate the hellish laughter pouring from him. But such hysteria boded well for the demon. 

It took awhile for the demented giggles to die down and even then Undertaker’s shoulders still hitched occasionally as he slid from behind his desk, heavy cloak sweeping through the dust on the floor as he circled the demon.

“Eh eh, I’ve heard the unspeakable, hysterical!” Long nails flickered out to nearly graze the butler's pointed chin. “What a joke!” Skeletal arms draped over the butler’s shoulders from behind and the previously creaky voice sounded close to Sebastian’s ear, holding depth he’d not heard from the mortician before. “Even for such splendid payment, why should I help you, neh?”

The demon’s ruby gaze slid until he saw silver flicker in his periphery. A spotless gloved hand slid back and slim fingers tangled in the chain along Undertaker’s waist to lightly tug. Funeral lockets jingled quietly. 

“You know why.”

Undertaker went rigid a moment and his nails dug into the demon’s cheek, his voice low and dangerous now. “You think so?”

The demon’s chin dipped down minutely. “The family has a bewitching history, as you are well aware. I’m not the first caught in their snare.”

“Pah!” Undertaker spat dismissively as he jerked away from the demon. “They’re only good for a laugh!”

Sebastian held up his hand, the long thin chain on the _momento mori_ swinging as a damning pendulum, snatched from Undertaker without his notice. “You wouldn’t have this if that were true.” 

Undertaker’s eyes widened and bloodless white lips peeled back from teeth with a hiss. Sebastian’s nonplussed expression did not waver as his fingertips rubbed over a locket, a few strands of Phantomhive hair contained within.

“Countless die every day and it matters so little, but on occasion one of these little specks,” Sebastian mused, fingers stroking along the chain as he slid the length sinuously through his gentle grip, “Becomes so interesting, so diverting...and yet they die just like the rest of them. Their bodies rotting in the dirt or burned to ash and blown away. Honestly,” Sebastian’s eyes locked with the now furious verdant glare levelled at him over a coffin. “It’s embarrassing they’re brought so low, wouldn’t you agree?”

“You’ve ceased to make me laugh, demon,” Undertaker warned as his fingers closed around the _sotoba_ leaning against the wall.

“I agree, it’s not funny at all.” Sebastian coiled up the chain in his hand, lockets dancing over his knuckles. “How dull it will all be when the last piece topples and the board cleared,” Sebastian offered a little smile of his own, a slow curling one that promised all manner of intrigue and machinations. “Of course, if you help me this game could continue. Wouldn’t that be amusing?” 

A long sleeve ghosted up to push back silvery hair from his face, revealing the macabre jigsaw features as he twirled the _sotoba_ in his other hand. Porcelain skin tracked with scars, pale as death, hovered above the candle’s flame, a pensive death mask focused on the demon.

**Thunk**

****

****

**Thunk**

****

****

**Thunk**

The wooden grave marker tapped hollowly into the floor as the mortician appeared to consider the demon’s words. “Perhaps. Could be funny. Could be a disaster. Either way, I’d be entertained for ages.” A grin once again tugged at one side of his bloodless mouth.

“I have offered what I believe is more than fair compensation for my request. Will you arrange the meeting or no?” Sebastian inspected his pocket watch. “I need to return to my master before he awakens, otherwise he will be cross.”

A wheezy crackle of laughter slithered across the room. “You’ll need to offer that old stiff more than a laugh if you want his help.” He kicked the tip of the _sotoba_ up to rest against his shoulder. “But I shall, if only to see this play out. The little earl...he’s a tasty morsel, neh?”

“You’ve no idea,” Sebastian murmured as he extended his hand and placed Undertaker’s _momento mori_ on the desk, then the demon turned on his heel and headed for the door. As his fingers alighted on the handle Undertake spoke on last time.

“To love a Phantomhive is ruin, butler.”

Sebastian looked over his shoulder, one slim brow arching as an amused expression danced over his refined face, “Now you will make me laugh, Undertaker. Demons don’t love. We play with our food. Send word when a time is arranged, and we shall attend.” The bell over the door tingled merrily as the demon left in a swirl of arctic air.

Undertaker’s skeletal fingers swiped away a tear of merriment as he giggled once more after the door banged shut. 

“Oh, he can lie after all.”

When Sebastian returned to the dark London manor, all was quiet, his master at rest, as he had been these last three days given the delicious violence the demon had showered upon him. 

Lord Phantomhive had remained abed but was not idle, covers littered with papers, working still. He perused legal documents and missives from Lau’s informants, dashed out directives to the Yard or several of the miscreant underlings Sebastian kept under thumb to do the nefarious aristocrat’s bidding throughout the capital. Occasionally, he snapped his fingers at the demon to attend him with another honeyed tea or backhanded Sebastian for looking a bit too pleased at his work, hidden though it was behind windings of muslin about the irritable depot’s throat.

It was simply not possible for Sebastian to maintain an implacable expression, not when he pulled the empty tea cart to the door and caught, in the corner of his garnet gaze, the earl unconsciously touching his neck as he scribbled out a line most likely condemning some unfortunate to a painful death or siphoning away their fortune so they woke up on the morrow utterly ruined. Elegant fingers rose to tuck a midnight lock of hair back over a shoulder before alighting on that pale column and unwittingly lingered over the black butler’s touch.

Sebastian slipped free his wool coat to hang in the hall closet then glided towards the kitchen to ensure the preparations for breakfast were in order before he retired to his narrow room on the servant’s level. Few things surprised the demon, but his master continued to be regular among them, as the demon drew to a stop in the doorway, pinned under the narrowed gaze of the Earl of Phantomhive seated at table.

“Where?” His enchanting master’s voice was cracked from days’ disuse and injury. Sebastian thought it ever so lovely.

The demon’s eyes flitted over the remains of a modest tea his lord apparently prepared for himself, a few bites of cake left on a plate, a cooling brew in the Meissen Saxe teapot. “If you desired a late snack you could have summoned me, my lord.”

The sharp slap of his tyrant’s hand landing on the table had the demon’s skin prickling pleasantly, as did the violet eye glimmering at him from across the room with ill-disguised ire.

“Had I a notion you’d be peckish so late I would have saved my errand for tomorrow.”

“Sebastian,” Lord Phantomhive’s wrecked voice warned.

The demon stifled a sigh; magnificent though his master may be, he was sometimes still so impatient. Sebastian considered that particular quirk may resolve itself eventually, given time. If it did not, well, the demon would not mind too much; his master’s prickliness was one of his more endearing traits. Kindness was, after all, pointless and he often preferred Lord Phantomhive’s anger over his ardor. 

“At least allow me to re-apply your tincture before you chastise me, my lord.” 

Lord Phantomhive’s violet eye glowed dimly as he regarded the demon before his elegant head inclined ever so slightly. Sebastian made speedy work of the small mess, whisking away the plate and freshing the teapot to pour another steaming cup for his regent before he heated more water to dilute the arnica oil in which he soaked a length of cloth.

The demon knelt between the seated earl’s legs, long fingers gently unwinding muslin, and Sebastian’s eyes glowed with satisfaction at the macabre necklace of bruises about the Earl of Phantomhive’s neck. Certainly, his master carried a more permanent mark of the demon’s touch in his mutilated eye, but Sebastian enjoyed this one in an entirely different way. 

He hoped to bestow more such jewels upon the earl again soon. 

Given his lord’s glower the demon knew better than too linger too long in admiration, and he resisted the desire to press a thumb against one of the injuries, savor the throb of broken vessels under the skin. He wiped his master’s neck with the tincture, slowly smoothing over tendon and muscle. The earl’s head canted gradually to one side to allow him access.

“I’d a notion, my lord, and I hope you will forgive me for taking action without consulting you.”

The noble pinched the demon’s ear hard, a clear directive to quit dancing about the subject and get on with it. His master had become quite fluent in silent reprimands since his voice broke days earlier. The demon’s hand trickled down the other side of the aristocrat’s neck and lingered over the perfect imprint of a thumb just below his ear.

“I am mad with hunger.”

Lord Phantomhive’s hand darted out to clench the demon’s shoulder, wrinkling the fine fabric of his waistcoat. The demon glanced up from his artistry decorating the earl’s skin to fasten on the intrigued gaze levelled down at him. 

“If I were to do it now…” Sebastian’s fingers feathered under noble’s chin, thumb slipping up to catch on the royal’s lower lip. With a slow exhale Lord Phantomhive’s plush lips parted and the demon’s black nailed finger pressed in, onto his tongue, which curled soft and wet against the pad. His master’s eyelids flickered but did not close.

The demon’s usually flinty gaze softened minutely “You would charge into the abyss, ever so eager.” The demon shivered minutely at the subtle suss of his raja’s breath over his damp skin, and he stroked his thumb out, then in, once more.

“And if I starve myself further, my lord. For you,” the demon whispered, warm palm curling along his despot’s cool jaw, his eyes snagged by the luminous glow of his master’s demonic contract, “You would delight to wallow in our...mm...protracted, mutual torment. But for how long?”

“Until the end,” Lord Phantomhive’s already hoarse voice fractured further under the pressure of the devil’s gaze. “I don’t care when it comes.” 

“What if I could deliver you decades….centuries...” Sebastian murmured. 

Lord Phantomhive’s hand swept up to the demon’s inky hair and jerked, snatching the demon’s face close. “Tell me.”

Sebastian’s tongue slithered out to slick over his master’s lips as he practically purred, “Ciel.”

The sudden, vicious blow to his temple knocked the demon sideways, and the bowl of tincture splashed to the floor, soaking his trousers. The demon laughed; here he was offering so much, **everything** to his cruel caesar and he would still be denied his name. He nearly kissed the earl’s foot in gratitude.

“ _Shinigami_ , my lord.”

Intrigued, the Earl of Phantomhive allowed Sebastian to spill his machinations in fits. Sometimes it was the flat of the earl’s hand that drew a heady gasp followed by another offered insight, others a closed fist that had the butler bending double. The increasingly excited demon’s face pressed against the dark noble’s torso in thanks for the condescension. . 

By the time they stumbled upstairs Sebastian’s errand that night had been laid out, his intentions fully revealed, and the earl was of a mind to show his appreciation for the demon’s initiative by taking up the riding crop. The Earl of Phantomhive’s hand petted roughly through the black butler’s hair before yanking it to cant his head back as four strikes landed in quick succession across Sebastian’s now bared back. The black butler clawed at the bedpost to which his wrists were bound.

“If this is your glee I look for-AH!...mm,” the demon’s eyes rolled back in his head in pleasure, “...look forward to infuriating you indefinitely.” 

The dark smirk Lord Phantomhive directed at him had the demon already dreaming up ways to vex his delectable caliph. At least until the Earl grew bored of the crop and slipped polished silver from the demon’s pocket, then the demon was unable to concentrate on anything but the luxurious slide of Augustan Christian Drenwert II silver through his flesh.

Later, after Sebastian stripped the blood streaked sheets from the bed to remake it, Lord Phantomhive’s hand lit on his forearm as the black butler turned to depart for downstairs. At the very least the demon needed to change into clean shirtsleeves before the sun rose.

“Something more, my lord?”

“Stay. Until I sleep,” the Earl of Phantomhive husked, his damaged voice all the rougher for the exultant groans that had trickled from him not half an hour previous.

“Of course, master.” Sebastian took his place by the wall, hands clasped behind his back and his face turned subtly in the direction of the figure settling on the bed. The demon silently watched dark hair fan over a pillow, a corpse pale limb splay over the sheets under the winter moonlight that streamed through the window. 

While he’d not every particular determined, Sebastian had utmost faith in his master’s cleverness, his deviousness, his greed, and knew they had a fair chance at success with Lord Phantomhive’s formidable mind dedicated to the task. What the demon may not have considered the earl would turn over a dozen times before he determined the merit of every avenue available. 

And if not...well, Sebastian resolved not to dwell on unpleasant possibilities and instead kept his unblinking gaze on his master’s sleeping form until the noble’s breaths evened out and the demon was free to make use of the scant time left to him before breakfast needed to be prepared.

Time ticked over and Christmas arrived and passed, the London townhouse abandoned once more for the country manor, which was nearly as grim as ever, except for the small seasonal decorations the servants put up in the entry and in the help’s common rooms. Lord Phantomhive would have let the day slip right by without heed, except for the prompting from his demon that he owed appreciation to Mey-Rin, Bard, Finnie and Tanaka for yet another year of unswerving devotion and occasional massacre to keep the Phantomhive estate and name secure.

In response, Lord Phantomhive sent them to the Houndsworth hot spring for the new year. It was their decision to take it as a gift, rather than the banishment the Earl intended in order to ensure the year began without fuss or noisome celebration. As much as Sebastian enjoyed the liberty an empty house afforded his master, who defiled the demon against many a polished and priceless surface in the interim, he did not have to feign pleasure at their company when they swept into the manor in a rush of chatter once more. 

Demons enjoyed chaos and the servants still supplied a dash of that, despite the years of improvement under their belts. 

Finnie’s overly enthusiastic sweeping of the snow from the garden paths piled drifts against the doors and windows that required some effort to open. Mey-Rin and Bard caused a not insubstantial amount of damage to the main kitchen when they distracted each other from lunch’s preparation. 

After Sebastian managed to waft away the smoke and douse the flames, he kicked open the door to the pantry and, in as severe a voice as they’d ever heard from him, stated, “As satisfying as the culmination of years of tiresome yearning must be, you will refrain from neglecting your assigned tasks and fornicating on the dry goods.”

Bard’s head jerked up from where it had been buried beneath the maid’s petticoats as Mey-Rin’s sharp eyes grew round as she peered at the head butler upside down from her position over the potato bin. “Whut?”

The cook flipped her skirts down and stood quickly, slipping a cigarette from behind his ear as he offered a hand to the cleaning girl to help her up. “‘E says quit basket making ‘n get back to work.”

The maid huffed and re-tied her apron, then patted her pockets for her glasses. “Sorry, Sebastian! I’ll get right on it, I will.”

The butler stood aside as the two ducked from the pantry to hurry down the hall; he stifled a smile as Bard’s mutter drifted to him, “If ‘e got a bit o’ quim ‘e’d understand. Take some starch out ‘is shirt.” Mey-Rin nasal laughter trickled away as they rounded the corner.

Sebastian was still smiling minutely as he rolled the lunch cart to the gymnasium where Lord Phantomhive was found practicing his blade throwing against some dummies that lined the far wall. Sebastian watched from the corner of his eye as he laid out the meal and wafted snowy linen over a table off to one side before he lined up the flatware appropriately. 

The century had turned over and newer, more devastating and noisome weapons had streamed into the country’s black market. Lord Phantomhive certainly availed himself of, and was quite proficient in, any number of deadly instruments, but he preferred the refinement of tempered steel above all. He was, forever, an devotee of the classics.

“I would offer to setup the range on the east lawn if I thought you’d accept, my lord,” Sebastian called across the room to attract the earl’s attention to his presence and lunch.

Lord Phantomhive threw one last blade to bury itself several inches deep in the target’s head, before he turned, jerking his head to whip loose cobalt hair from his face. “I find guns inelegant, Sebastian. It takes next to no skill to use one. Especially the monstrous automatic ordnance we seized from that Dutch ship last week.” He accepted the towel offered and wiped his face before sitting to allow the demon to flutter a napkin across his lap.

“But they are efficient. I often think they are one of man’s greatest inventions. Such a cowardly luxury, eliminating someone from a distance,” Sebastian replied with a merry tilt of his lips.

The Earl of Phantomhive tsked dismissively; a coward he had never been, and his disdain for lazy violence apparent. “It’s so impersonal,” he complained as he spooned a mouthful of potage aux legumes, “You know I enjoy the intimacy of watching the light escape their eyes.”

“I suppose being the last thing they see before the gates of hell is some small pleasure as well,” the demon bantered. His master’s arrogance had few limits, it was one of the things the demon adored about him.

“I already regret authorizing overtime for this,” a clipped voice sounded. 

Sebastian turned, a trio of knives fanned in his fingers.

“Ah, Spears. About time you responded to our invitation,” Lord Phantomhive drawled, not a note of surprise in his voice. He lifted another spoonful of soup to his lips, the sudden appearance of a reaper in his manor nothing worth interrupting his meal. Sebastian’s cooking was, as ever, exemplary.

“He checked the list every day, earl, hoping for your name, neh eh eh!” Undertaker’s creaky voice tittered. Sebastian bowed his head incrementally in unspoken gratitude to the mortician whose pale face hung over the shoulder of one of the target dummies, long black nails tracing the marked outline of the heart on the mannequin's chest. 

“I am not sorry to disappoint you,” Lord Phantomhive offered with a subtle motion to indicate Sebastian should stow his cutlery and remove the aristocrat’s dish. The main of cold poached salmon with Ravigote sauce would wait. 

The Earl of Phantomhive did not direct the butler to offer this guests any comfort nor did he make any movement to invite William T. Spears or Undertaker to follow him to the sitting room. The _shinigami_ would either accede to the demon and his master’s wishes or they would not, the offer of a chair or tea would have no effect. Sebastian considered the calculated impoliteness to death gods also amused his lord which, in turn, prompted the demon to smile, a slow curling thing that showed his sharp teeth.

Spears’ finger pushed his glasses up his nose as he looked down at imperiously at the seated noble taking a leisurely sip of Silver Tips Imperial Darjeeling. Mismatched eyes glowed at the otherworldly being over the rim of delicate china. 

“ _Shinigami_ are not permitted to meddle in human affairs,” Spears said stiffly and without preamble, fingers tight around the thick, leather bound List tucked under his left arm.

“We all know that isn’t true,” Sebastian murmured then fell silent when Lord Phantomhive raised two fingers in unspoken command.

“Yes, yes, I am aware you’re tasked with merely collecting souls on your precious list,” the dark noble with all the air of someone tolerating with a dull chore they wished to conclude quickly. “But allowances are made, on occasion.”

Undertaker’s raspy chuckle drifted across the room and something at the corner of Spear’s eye twitched as he snipped, “For a demon to propose such an exception is the highest offense.” The _shinigami_ favored the black butler with a look of such contempt Sebastian bowed at the waist with a smirk. 

Glowing emerald clashed with hellfire crimson and the death scythe trimmer in Spears’ right hand tapped on the tile of the gym floor sharply once, twice. Sebastian’s fingers rose to his breast, palm flat as though in deference but really quite close to the handful of top-grade silver he kept there. 

The sadistic noble rolled his eyes subtly at the silent battle of glares and snapped his fingers at the demon to gain his attention. 

When Sebastian glanced over his imperious tyrant flicked his index finger to the floor with a stern, unblinking gaze, the silent directive clear. Were the stakes not so high Sebastian might have taken advantage of his mutual ownership over the contract and refused Lord Phantomhive’s decree.

But they were high indeed, and while his master often delighted in debasing the demon any number of ways, this was a heretofore untried approach. Sebastian was certain there was a reason to it other than to nearly humiliate the demon before _shinigami_.

Thus, the demon lowered himself, first to one knee then the other, and rested back on his heels to kneel next to his master’s chair. Lord Phantomhive’s genteel hand moved to lay patronizingly on the demon’s head, as one might a loyal dog.

“He does not propose anything. I do,” the Earl of Phantomhive said sternly, as though reproaching a death god for implying his demonic manservant was anything but unthinkingly servile. “ _Shinigami_ have latitude to spare those who have potential to be of great benefit to the world.”

Spears’ finger twitched on the handle of his scythe. “A murderer of murderers hardly fits the criteria.“

Only the subtle motion of the earl’s fingertips on Sebastian’s head kept him silent; as it was, the demon’s sharp teeth sunk into his tongue to quell the urge to chastise Spears for comparing his master to a mere, base killer. Lord Phantomhive was an artist, a veritable maestro of the macabre. 

Also, Sebastian was the only one permitted to insult the Earl of Phantomhive.

“Neh eh Will, indifference doesn’t suit you.” Spears did not blink when the black cloak of the mad embalmer whisked past him to circle the noble seated implacably at his table, demon brought to heel at his feet. 

“Thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds, we check all their records on the chance-” Undertaker’s spindly ivory fingers curled over the back of the blueblood’s chair, the silvery sheet of his hair swaying to brush the Lord Phantomhive’s shoulder “-we find a jewel.” He hung over the wicked aristocrat with an air of covetousness that was mirrored in the kneeling demon’s face.

“I am no shiny bauble,” the Earl of Phantomhive demurred, unbothered by the dusty wretch hovering at his back. “What I am is an opportunity.”

“Do not speak as though this is one of your petty business negotiations. You have nothing to offer that is of any interest to Administrative Management.”

Lord Phantomhive laughed, a dark, slinking thing that made the demon at his feet sigh contentedly as he looked up, eyes fastened to his master’s contemptuous profile. 

“Of course I do. Administration, delegation, bureaucracy,” the malevolent aristocrat ticked off as though discussing the Funtom quarterly report rather than matters of inhuman import. “I produce and distribute toys, candy, other such fripperies. Your product is souls. Collection from the dying, distribution to the hereafter. You even perform quality inspection.” He favored the bespectacled _shinigami_ with a polite smile, the veneer he wore whenever conducting corporate mediation. “I can appreciate, even admire, such an a tidy enterprise.”

Undertaker barked once, a demented crackle of laughter as he uncurled his fingers from the chair and swanned around the table once more to sidle to Spears’ side, scarred face hovering by the reaper’s ear. 

“Told you he puts me in stitches.”

Spears’ head inclined almost modestly at the earl’s recognition of the efficiency of Administrative Management before he glanced at Undertaker. 

“Do shut up.”

“But with any well-oiled machine there will eventually be-” Lord Phantomhive continued, and the hand slowly stroking through Sebastian’s inky hair slid down to curl under his pointed chin in a manner most proprietary, “-a spanner in the works. Like my faithful monstrosity and others like him. Although, I do like to think there may be no other exactly like Sebastian. I enjoy collecting exceedingly rare things.” 

Any simmering irritation the demon felt at his master ordering him to his knees before the _shinigami_ dissipated. It was not simply the coy praise washing over the devil that soothed his infernal mood but the significance behind it, that Sebastian was unique, peerless in his lord’s estimation.

At the reminder of the demon’s presence the _shinigami_ favored the demon with a loathsome look, the corner of Spears’ mouth curling in a sneer. “A vulgar nuisance.”

“Demons are more than a simple annoyance, aren’t they?” Lord Phantomhive continued to pet Sebastian slowly, and the demon couldn’t help but arch into the touches, eyes slipping closed as his master gradually laid bare his proposal, unfurling each temptation with all the refinement of the black butler overseeing one of the earl’s lavish fetes. Lord Phantomhive was a marvel, and the demon could not wait to express his admiration when negotiations were concluded. It would be gloriously gorey.

“Gobbling up souls before the harvest,” the shadowy aristocrat said with a dash of scorn in his voice, “I expect, given your organization’s penchant for regulation, you’ve some difficulty meeting quota with such hungry beasts ranging about.”

Sebastian’s eyes widened as he caught a glimpse of his master’s intent. The demon was thought to be unique, singular? If Lord Phantomhive’s train of thought continued down this path he slowly, expertly revealed to _shinigami_ and demon alike, Sebastian would become rarer still. 

He turned his face into the palm along his cheek and an incisor nicked at the noble’s lifeline.

“Yes,” Spears gritted out, his chartreuse eyes glimmering with ill-concealed ire mixed with revulsion at the nearly wanton way the demon leaned into its patronizing master. The _shinigami_ plainly saw the ravenousness in the demon’s gaze. The only thing that kept this particular abomination from running wild was its contract to the human. 

It was unusual for a demon to be contracted so long; Spears knew they usually fulfilled the shallow wishes of their foolish owners as quickly as possible so they might consume their soul then move along to the next reckless human. Demons were indiscriminate, greedy and extremely disruptive to the work of the grim reapers.

“I will provide assistance with your pest problem, as it were,” Lord Phantomhive offered magnanimously. “And eliminate any demon we come across. If you’ve a few particularly irksome imps in mind, they could be made a priority.”

“In exchange for striking you from the list,” Spears responded stiffly. 

Lord Phantomhive scoffed, “Hardly. I’m offering to stamp out the demon scourge for you; that merits a bit more than a line through my name. No, you will provide me with the tool I require to perform such altruistic action. For as long as I desire. After all, killing a demon is hardly an easy task.” The noble spared a glance down at Sebastian, whose cheek had come to rest on his depost’s knee. “They are quite sturdy.” A minute smile creased the demon’s thin lips at those words, his master’s fingers continuing their slow sweep along the sharp jut of his jaw. “And I expect it will take more than one mortal lifetime to significantly reduce their numbers.”

“My brethren are multitude, master,” Sebastian sighed amiably as Spears made a disgusted noise.

“Why should I expect someone like you to abide by such an agreement?” Even as Spears seemingly rebuffed the earl, Undertaker’s grin grew at his shoulder.

Lord Phantomhive’s gaze shifted in an instant from distantly polite to narrow and cold, and the tenor of his voice sharpened. His words slivered through the air with the precision of his finest blade.

“Are you questioning my honor?” 

The simple inquiry was anything but when laced with such ice, the touch of the words upon the ear provoking a chill, even in a grim reaper. Sebastian’s muscles tensed under him, the instinct within him to rise in defense strong, but the cool fingers on his cheek held him in place more effectively than any shackles devised by man.

The demon’s eyes did, however, widen in the delight at the sudden additional rigidity of Spears’ posture. It seemed even death gods had some sense to know when step around a trap. Spears’ index finger pushed his glasses up his nose once more, although his gaze seemed to have lost a dash of its imperiousness.

After a long moment, during which it was clear the reaper was considering his responses carefully, he replied in a neutral tone. “No. It was an observation most demon contractors are not...so considerate.”

Gaze still tight on the reaper, Lord Phantomhive stated coolly, “You should know by now I am not like others, _shinigami_. Sebastian.” The sudden ring of command in the noble’s voice had the demon sitting up quickly, his perfected form thrumming in anticipation.

“Yes, my lord?”

“There’s a minor demon in the village. Bring it here.”

“Yes, my lord.” Before Spears could voice any protest, much less move, the demon darted past him and out the door, the only sign of his exit a subtle waft of the spotless cloth over the earl’s table.

“Hm. I should have asked him for another pot before he left,” the dark noble sighed as he glanced into his empty cup before he turned to lift the cover off the main. “You will excuse me while I continue lunch. He may be a some minutes.” With that Lord Phantomhive sampled a sliver of poached salmon then made a pleased noise at his butler’s preparation as he completely ignored the _shinigami_ glaring down at him.

Half an hour ticked by as the earl finished his meal in silence, then picked up the pressed paper the black butler had slid under the tray and snapped it open to the to peruse the latest news from London. Undertaker occupied himself by hopping up to perch, then eventually to drape himself over, the pommel upon which the noble exercised each day. Spears maintained his inflexible posture in front of Lord Phantomhive’s table, still as a statue.

“And how do you know there was another demon in the vicinity?” Spears eventually queried.

The corner of the paper creased downward as Lord Phantomhive peered over it, as though he’d quite forgotten he was not alone. “Oh, there’s a stupid local smuggler aware I’ve a Queen’s warrant for him. A whisper regarding unnatural protection made its way to him, and he was desperate enough to seek a contract.”

Undertaker cackled, “Eh! We’ll have a show with his meal!”

“You deliberately arranged this, dangled a soul in front of another demon,” Spears, despite his unflappable exterior, was clearly incensed, “as a demonstration. Repugnant.”

“Take it as a magnanimous gesture on my part,” the Earl of Phantomhive responded smoothly before raising the paper again. “There will be one less demon in the world after this day, at the very least.”

Before the _shinigami_ could respond Sebastian reappeared with a struggling figure trussed and tossed over his shoulder. Oblivious to the violently kicking legs that nearly struck his face the black butler easily carried his burden across the room to deposit it unceremoniously on the floor in front of his master’s table. Lord Phantomhive folded up the paper before rising, and his hand plucked up one of his sabers from where was racked on the wall behind him.

“Your name,” he intoned down at the struggling figure.

The pert pink face of a youthful barmaid blinked up at him through tears.”Oh, Lord! Please, what’ve I done!? Please, sir, I’m innocent!” She squirmed with her hands bound behind her back, writhing until she turned on her side, legs drawn up into the fall of her skirts as she attempted to gain her knees.

“Name.” The metallic scrape of the blade tip drawn along the tile floor sounded over her high, girlish cries. 

“‘Tis Annaliese, sir! Please, I’ve done naught to hurt anyone! Why’ve I been brought here!?” Her hysteria seemed so genuine, the confusion on her young face absolute. Except when the earl canted his head slowly to the side in Sebastian’s direction.

“Mephisto.”

The girl went pale and still for a moment before true panic overtook her features, then she shrieked inhumanly loud and struggled more wildly, positively thrashing.

Only years of practicing a nonplussed expression in the face of his master’s charming twists of intellect and mood prevented the demon at his side from starting at the use of his true name. He’d not even been aware Lord Phantomhive knew it.

He’d been Sebastian from the moment they met; he was Sebastian through and through. Every hair, every fiber, every cell in him Sebastian and all of it the Earl of Phantomhive’s.

But now his master require something a bit more from Sebastian, something a bit more _than_ Sebastian, and the demon understood his odious ruler instantly. Narrow pale lips thinned further to peel back from sharp teeth, which elongated into serrated nightmares. The sooty tails of his coat fluttered to insubstantial smoke as the thin grey shadows of the room deepened and swiftly coalesced around the black butler.

“Yesssss, my lord.” Inhuman resonance shimmered in his voice and echoed off the tile of the gymnasium. 

Spears took a smart step back as the barmaid turned her tear streaked face up to him and cried piteously, “Sir! Please, won’t you help me!?” The look he favored her with was akin to the one levelled at a bug smeared on the sole of a shoe.

Lord Phantomhive’s hand slipped out to stroke, without hesitation and quite impertinently, over his demon’s streaming hair, flickering briefly over the cascade of ebony feathers that drifted from the devil’s shoulders. 

“My loyal creature,” Lord Phantomhive’s tenor was soft as his touch along Sebastian’s bloodcurdling form; something that might have passed for affection in any other’s voice was naught but haughty ownership when falling from the lips of Ciel, Earl of Phantomhive.

“Persuade it to be truthful.” 

The demon’s eyes flamed vermillion and, as he took a step forward, the spike heel of his boot struck sparks.

“Of course, masssssster.”

The inhuman screams that filled the room leaked past the thick doors, racing through the whole of Phantomhive manor. The servants paused in their duties to look up, necks craned in the direction of the east wing before they shuddered and turned his minds back to their duties. Finnie made haste to the west garden past Tanaka who patted him once on the back and favored him with a grim smile before he returned to writing up the pantry order for the following month.

Undertaker ceased to chortle and hovered at Spears’ shoulder, both pairs of chartreuse eyes fixed on the hissing, mangled wretch on the floor. The _shinigami_ took a step back when blood dark as spilled ink wound along the floor to nearly touch a polished shoe.

“Valac is it, then?” the Earl of Phantomhive mused once the desired information was forcibly extracted from the lesser demon gurgling under the spike of Sebastian’s boot through its sternum.

He glanced over at the reapers and his mouth tipped upward in satisfaction at the huff of indignation from the stuffy death god as Spears related, “A demon by that name has consumed 17 souls in the last 5 decades.”

“Do tell.” Lord Phantomhive feigned surprise as he leaned over to inspect the wheezing demon, whose golden eyes glared malevolently up at the dark noble from the no longer benign face of the barmaid. Her countenance, what was left of it, was distorted into a twisted snarl. 

“So many that quickly. They can’t have been of much quality. I suppose gluttony can make one indiscriminate.” With Sebastian’s unholy weight bearing down on the petty devil, the Earl of Phantomhive proceeded to carve the pitch black heart from its chest under the watchful gaze of the reapers.

Once he held the dark, twisted thing in his hand Lord Phantomhive turned to cooly regard Spears. Sebastian slid to his side, back to his polite public form, as he took his lord’s begrimed blade and tucked it from sight, as though it were the most offensive thing in the room rather than the mutilated body at their feet.

“It yet lives.” The Earl of Phantomhive pointed out as he held the odious pulsing thing up to Spears’ eyeline. 

The reaper narrowed his emerald gaze at it before, with a quick **snick!** , the blades of his scythe neatly halved the vile organ and the pieces fell to the floor with a repellent splat. The agonized demon went still, golden gaze forever fixed in a baleful glare.

“As I said, rather sturdy,” the Earl of Phantomhive noted as reached a hand out to his black butler to allow Sebastian wipe the gore from his master’s fingers. The demon glanced over Lord Phantomhive’s shoulder to spare Spears a bland smile, as though he’d not just assisted in the vivisection of one of his own kind, and would happily do so again on the say-so of his human.

Never let it be said that the demon was not adaptable, even when his lord’s insidious mind proposed the wholesale slaughter of his kind without bothering to consult Sebastian in advance. Not that he minded, the demon quite relished the notion he would become the most rare artifact in the Phantomhive collection. A credit to his master’s taste.

Undertaker’s gaze traveled slowly from the floor, over the wrecked corpse, up the length of the Earl of Phantomhive, to rest on his haughty face, something quite sane and speculative in his expression.

“Will-”

“I know,” the bespectacled reaper retorted brusquely.

Such few words but apparently a wealth of meaning in them as the two dark figures glanced at each other, a silent conversation traded in a few tense moments.

“Clean that up thoroughly, Sebastian,” the earl decreed as he took up his seat once more, ignoring the odious smear of the dead devil on the floor. Once the butler exited with his gorey burden over his shoulder, a nearly giddy bounce in his step, Lord Phantomhive looked over at the _shinigami_ once more, this time with a knowing expression.

“You’d hunt the demons to extinction,” Spears sniffed as he pushes his glasses up his nose once more. “But for yours, you mean.” As cold as his voice was it was clear the calculations swayed heavily in the earl’s favor. One demon versus the multitude currently ranging the world, mucking up the natural order of things.

The Earl of Phantomhive levelled Spears with a heavy look. “Sebastian will have my soul one day. I owe it to him, and I do not shirk my debts.” he steepled his fingers under his chin as he laid out the last of his cards, the culmination of this negotiation. “Mine will be the last soul he ever consumes. On that you have my word as a gentleman and a Phantomhive.”

Spears’ chartreuse eyes widened at the implication, no demons left in the world, reapers would collect souls without interference, as scheduled, as intended, and deliver them as it was meant to be. The scales swayed, the cost to achieve all this was to allow one single human to continue, long past any natural end, to do what Administrative Management could not. The numbers were persuasive to the methodical _shinigami_.

The only sound in the room now was subtle tick of heating pipes and the shushed suss of Undertaker’s cloak as he turned to Spears, silver hair pushed back from his face, his scarred, pale visage somber. The _sotoba_ flicked up to rest against his shoulder and Undertaker turned his face to rub his cheek against the smooth, polished wood almost affectionately.

“The little earl’s earned it.”

Spears blinked at Undertaker, his lips parted in surprise before he tightly sealed them once more and gave only a curt nod in acknowledgement. 

Undertaker turned, wave of silver hair cascading over one shoulder as he twirled his _sotoba_ once, twice before striking the tip of it against the floor with a sharp sound before he extended it to the Earl of Phantomhive.

The shadowy noble did not bother to rise from his seat to accept the scythe and merely regarded it with an air of aloof interest. The moment it touched his fingers it was no longer a wooden grave marker, etched with the ideographs of those long dead, but instead a smooth ebony hardwood cane, silky and warm to the touch, the heavy grip a silver eagle’s head not unlike that which adorned the Phantomhive family crest. A quick twist of the grip and the blade that slid free with a metallic slither glowed an unearthly green. 

The nefarious aristocrat's finger slid, with the smallest hint of possessiveness, along the fine edge, heedless of the sharpness. 

He could break, he could bleed, he could take and withstand any manner of injury, for Ciel, Earl of Phantomhive was death’s master now, as he was the black butler’s. He would not die, except at the time of his choosing and only at the hand of his demon. He would not even age, that was the power, the promise, of the scythe, to keep its bearer strong enough to carry its burden. 

A rare burst of dark joy rushed through the noble before he mastered himself once more.

“Take care of it,” Undertaker murmured and the sleeve of his funeral robe slid along the pale expanse of his arm as it rose, the delicate ivory of his knuckles daring to skim along the earl’s flawless cheek, a shadow of the affection the reaper once held for another Phantomhive. 

“It is my treasure.” 

The noble’s mutilated gaze met the unnatural emerald of the mortician’s as the _momento mori_ jingled softly quietly at the motion. The Earl of Phantomhive inclined his head, the closest the man ever came to gratitude, as that would imply he was ever given something which he was not innately owed, that he had not well and truly earned. 

“I’ll do my duty.”

“See that you do. I expect to see a marked rise in collection by the end of the quarter,” Spears clipped coolly as he flipped up his own scythe to rest against his shoulder.

A ghost of a smile skated over the blueblood’s visage. “Then I suggest you speak to you subordinates about improving their work ethic.” A clear implication the earl was not one of them, but something else entirely. 

He had no interest in souls, not even his own, only in this new, intriguing game that had begun. 

The first pawn slid into place, the opening gambit laid bare, as Spears snapped open the leather bound List and flipped through it rapidly until he found what he sought. The verdant gaze was resolved as he deftly plucked a single page free from its binding: the Earl of Phantomhive’s. 

As delicate as dust it crumbled the moment it was loosened until only ephemeral motes danced briefly in the still air before they too dispersed. 

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve business to attend to,” Lord Phantomhive advised the moment the _shinigami_ sealed its end of the bargain. “You’ll show yourselves out. Unless you’d prefer I have Sebastian escort you.” The smirk he spared Spears was not subtle, but the earl was in a daring mood today; it had reaped substantial benefits, after all.

The expression on the death god’s face showed his opinion of the demon’s master had not elevated in the slightest with their agreement. 

Not that the Earl of Phantomhive cared; he strode past them to return to his suites, leaving the _shinigami_ to find their own way out. Most likely on the ether by which they’d apparently travelled to the estate in the first place; he didn’t particularly give a damn.

He rang the bell for Mey-Rin, once he reached his room, and requested she run his bath. He’d little notion if Sebastian intended to bury the other devil’s remains on the property or had incinerated them already; he might ask later if he decided it mattered. For now, he let his demon handle the more important chore and allowed the other servant to complete some of his butler’s smaller tasks.

After completing his ablutions Lord Phantomhive dressed in heather wool trousers and a black blouse, one hand idly combing out his damp hair, the other curled proprietarily over the smooth sterling grip of his cane as he looked out his bedroom window, over the manor grounds as the sun began to set. 

A new century had arrived, less cultivated, less refined, more hurried and crass than the one before. He idly wondered what the next would bring, what new manner of degeneration would arise to ensnare humanity and continue its lethargic slide into ruin. 

The Earl of Phantomhive would be there to witness it, then another, another, all with Sebastian at his side. The demon had existed a long time, witnessed the rise and fall of nations, eras, perhaps epochs. He would prove a useful companion, as ever.

“Never let it be said I did not keep my promises,” the demon boasted placidly, the hellfire heat of his breath stirring the hair at the noble’s temple as the devil hovered at earl’s back..

“It will not be,” Lord Phantomhive affirmed with a brief dip down of his head, acknowledging his butler’s accomplishment this day. “I have demanded the incredible, the impossible. Time and again you deliver.” 

“What sort of Phantomhive butler would I be if I could not?” The tinge of amusement in the demon’s voice was plain; the blueblood did not need to see Sebastian’s face to know a smile played over his bewitching features.

“Not one I would tolerate,” Lord Phantomhive responded. When the demon’s immaculate gloves smoothed along his sides, crept over his ribs to fan over the tyrant’s chest, the noble allowed himself to sway back, confident as ever the demon would shore him up, the foundation stone upon which the villainous Earl of Phantomhive’s existence had been built.

“I am pleased.”

“Master,” The demon’s voice was soft reverence as he nosed aside the noble’s hair to mouth at the back of his neck. “Such praise, I’m positively heady.”

“Do not become accustomed to it, you know I loathe spoiling my servants. It was my proposal to eliminate demonkind that sealed it, after all,” he reminded his butler haughtily.

Sebastian’s lips brushed over the smooth expanse of the noble’s neck before sharp teeth followed, scraping at a tendon hard enough to break skin. “I prefer your scorn to your esteem, my lord. Feel free to insult and denigrate me whenever you like.”

Lord Phantomhive chuckled, a darkly melodic rumble the demon felt in the lord’s chest under his searching fingers as they plucked at buttons one at a time until the ebony fabric parted. 

“Insolent demon mm…” the earl hummed when the devil’s fingers danced over a nipple before pinching slowly, increasing the pressure until the blueblood leisurely twisted in the diabolical embrace. “Taking liberties without my leave.”

“Do you refer to initiating negotiations with the _shinigami_ or merely this?” Sebastian coaxed as his other hand slid down the front of his lord’s trousers.

“Both. Quite daring of you to presume I’d go along with your scheme. Did I not tell you once to speak plain with me when you desired something?” The despot did not return the demon’s touch, his left hand continuing to idly card through his own damp hair, the other curled over his cane and his thumb rubbed a leisurely path over the curved eagle’s head.

“Not daring at all; I was rather confident you would relish the notion. I know how much you adore a challenge.” Smooth gloved fingers deftly plucked loose the buttons closing his trousers then closed around the noble’s manhood and smoothly stroked up, intent on coaxing him to hardness. 

“What an interesting one this will be,” the earl agreed as his tongue slicked out to wet his lower lip while the devil’s clever teeth scratched another line over his skin, this time the velvet curve where neck met shoulder. 

“While I initiated the first move, your gambit secured the match,” Sebastian complimented, his fingers starting a new slow torture of the earl’s other nipple. “I have to admit, you surprised me.” 

The demon glimpsed the amused aspect on the earl’s face in the glass. “It is only natural I spent some time during our acquaintance studying you, Mephisto. If the notion did not occur to you then you are more impossibly dim than I thought.”

The black butler could not control the shiver that skirted through his frame when his true name dripped from his master’s lips, intoxicating as aged brandy. “My apologies for underestimating you, my lord.”

“Be sure you don’t do it again.” Finally the noble’s graceful fingers ceased their motion in hair when the demon’s cotton covered thumb slid more firmly along his manhood. “Kneel.”

The demon did not hesitate to sink to the floor once more; he thought he might become accustomed to this without much effort when Lord Phantomhive turned and caught the butler’s dark hair in his fingers to force his head back.

“You promised me centuries. By that time I expect you will be famished to the point of insanity.”

“Yes, my lord.” The demon vowed with relish, fingers creeping up his master’s legs.

“As I shall have a great deal of experience in such matters by then, I intend to have developed the skill to exterminate even an archdemon like you.”

Sebastian’s eyes slipped closed in elation at Lord Phantomhive’s infernal pledge, and his usually flawless posture nearly slumped at the wash of grim giddiness that filled the devil. 

“I will be the last soul you ever consume,” his dear regent promised.

“Master,” the demon husked, pale pink tongue flickering out inhumanly long to trail over his upper lip, his cheek, flicking out, desirous to taste his lord. The demon’s fingers curled into the fine material of Lord Phantomhive’s trousers, his voice turned quietly beseeching. 

“Let us annihilate each other.” 

How darkly poetic, the demon reflected, as he could not bear to contemplate the hollowness of existence once he dined and his earl was obliterated forever. 

The resonant glissade of metal had the demon canting his head further back to bare his neck to Lord Phantomhive. The devil did not bother to stopper his exultant gasp when the earl’s uncanny blade carved a delicate sliver of his flesh. He did not flinch but, rather, leaned into his master’s threatening touch.

“Oh, Sebastian,” the Earl of Phantomhive murmured almost kindly, “I’d not have it any other way.”

The demon was almost disheartened when the scythe clattered to the floor carelessly, but his temper was salvaged by Lord Phantomhive’s mouth descending upon his, the heady vintage of his soul bursting over the demon’s tongue. 

**This**.

This was the only meal the demon had ever sought, would ever desire, a soul that forsook any hope of salvation with fevered relish. Blighted with despair yet brimming, overflowing with pride, with imperiousness. Shrouded in depravity yet never once did it relinquish its innate nobility. 

In all his long existence the devil had never encountered, much less contracted with, a soul half as sinisterly enticing, as atrociously addictive. He was, by nature, a selfish creature, and he would keep this soul, this corruption, this dearest human with him as long as possible, until all semblance of reason left him and he was reduced to naught but a raving beast.

And then…

Oh then…

Then he would end, gloriously, gorily, utterly at the hands of the wretched, spiteful child he dragged from the cage and into his infernal embrace years ago.

“Ciel,” Sebastian moaned, fingers clinging to his master’s frame as the earl’s bitter kiss wrenched the forbidden from his mouth.

Lord Phantomhive jerked his face away and the devil delighted at the fevered glare cast down at him, resplendent displeasure washing over his master’s refined visage. 

“I never said you could call me that.” 

The quick backhand to the demon’s face had him groaning it again, ever louder. 

“Ciel.”

Another slap to his ear caused a wave of vertigo that nearly toppled the devil and prompted him press his forehead to his tyrant’s torso. Fiendish arms wound around the noble’s hips, an embrace close as the strangling vines that sought to throttle the blooms of the Phantomhive rose garden.

“Ciel.” 

The thumb pressed harshly to his right eye cut off the demon’s next enamoured sigh of his master’s name. To quash another blasphemous utterance from the devil, Lord Phantomhive ensured his mouth was otherwise occupied as he shoved his breeches down and out of the way enough to make use of his butler’s clever tongue.

Sebastian gladly choked on the thickness of his master’s flesh, tongue working in smooth undulations at the first roll of the grim aristocrat’s hips. Carmine eyes blinked up to fasten on Lord Phantomhive’s peerless features contorted in a sneer. 

“This is where where you belong, devil, at my feet,” he panted, tone lusciously cruel. “In my service. On my cock, my dear beast.” The fingers that skirted the high plane of the butler’s jaw were less than callous as they stroked along a sharp cheekbone, over the sublime pale curve of his ear, sifted into the jet spill of the demon’s hair.

“ I doubt…” the dark noble gasped at the insidious slide of his horrid servant’s lips, “...the human mind can withstand the passage of eras...perhaps I too shall be quite demented at the end of it all,” the dark noble muttered between languorous moans at the cleverness of his demon’s mouth, the silken glide of his tongue, the dizzying draw of his black butler. 

“I nearly pray you are,” Sebastian pulled back to pant feverishly as fingers clawed at the earl’s trousers, sharp black nails tearing through pristine gloves and soft grey wool. 

“Let us be mad together,” the demon moaned before bowing his head once more to accept Lord Phantomhive into his mouth. The delicious weight of him on his tongue, the delectable tang of his skin, his essence dripping onto the devil’s palate, the provocatively earthy scent of his sweat, his flesh and all of it belonged to the devil, owned and owning.

Sebastian positively worshipped at the altar of the Earl of Phantomhive. Let him always be here, reverent and zealous before his master, always together, inextricably entwined and dragging the other down, down, to the very depths of vicious degradation and intoxicating debauchery.

A particularly brutal thrust had the demon choking ecstatically, the sound rising like a corrupted hymn on the voices of sinners. At a viciously painful drag of Sebastian’s nails along the earl’s legs, Lord Phantomhive shouted, head tossed back to hit the window, which cracked at the impact. The devil pressed advantage and darted a hand up to rake nails through black cotton, tearing the noble’s shirt open before a black tipped palm pressed firmly to his chest and pinned the noble against the casement as though on display.

Sebastian slithered to his feet, mouth tracking up his malicious czar’s torso, leaving behind a litany of bites, each of which made the noble squirm. He delivered the final wound to his master’s mouth, harshly pulling his lower lip between knife-edged teeth and both men moaned when Phantomhive blood was shed. The demon lapped at his master’s mouth greedily, seeking out every drop.

“Take it, it’s yours,” Lord Phantomhive rasped between sensuous slides of the demon’s tongue over his, the slicing clench of the devil’s teeth on the abused flesh of his plush lips. “I am yours.”

Sebastian slowly slunk back, crimson eyes glittering with wicked warmth. “My lord, you do not need to tell me that. You always have been,” he replied before his fingers once more clenched and tore at the noble’s fine cloth, quickly, coarsely stripping him until the usually collected aristocrat was bare, Lord Phantomhive’s expression wild and wanton as his hands darted out for the black butler.

Sebastian allowed the shadowy earl to shove his tailcoat off and yank open the front of his unwrinkled shirt before the demon gripped the noble’s hands and twisted. 

The Earl of Phantomhive made only a token noise of protest as he was spun, his wrists wrenched together behind his back by the devil’s inhuman strength, and shoved against the window, cheek pushed to the spiderweb of cracks there.

Sebastian’s wretched touch snaked down the noble’s back, between his shifting shoulder blades as his master experimentally writhed to determine the strength of the demon’s grip. “Please fight harder, master,” he whispered silkily into the softness of his hair streaming down his back. “Otherwise poor Finnie may see something he ought not.”

There was a pause as understanding slowly penetrated the passion muddled mind of the dark despot. When he pushed back with his own formidable strength Sebastian wrestled with him momentarily with a malevolent laugh before again crushing him to the casement. “It’s almost as though you want the servants to witness you thoroughly debased, my lord.”

For a moment Lord Phantomhive continued to struggle before he suddenly went pliant, the coiled lines of his back softened and the demon swayed into him, fingers keeping their tight clench on his wrists as he insinuated a knee between his master’s thighs to press firmly against him.

“And you said you disliked spoiling the help only moments ago,” the demon drawled into the noble’s ear. “I appreciate the indulgence, master.” The demon proceeded to demonstrate his esteem for the noble’s momentary generosity and slinked to his knees, peppering Lord Phantomhive’s smooth back with a stinging trail of bites, marking his master as his, only his, ever his. 

When his razored teeth sunk into taut muscle the growl that trickled past his master’s lips did not at all discourage the demon; he quite looked forward to experimenting with how inventively he could torture his lord, only to see him rise again, hale and vibrant, on the morrow.

Sebastian lavished another wound, another, taking full advantage of his intimate knowledge of how sensitive the earl’s thighs were, how beautifully they bruised and bled as the demon languidly tore at him, his senses slowly spinning from the heady liqueur of Phantomhive blood.

When the demon roughly pushed apart the earl’s legs further, the outraged noise from his master was sharply interrupted when the demon licked him obscenely, tongue slithering out to lave over his balls, up between his legs, over his entrance and into him. 

Another novel, gorgeous violation of his resplendent master, and Sebastian found the noble’s shocked hiss, which swiftly tangled with low groans, positively inspiring. He feasted then, positively drunk on the shudders through his master’s frame, the tremble of his legs on either side of the demon’s shoulders, glutted on the aria of moaned curses and increasingly loud invocations of his name that dripped from Lord Phantomhive’s lips. The demon’s free hand stroked along the noble’s side, down his leg, nails dragging score marks over his flesh that prompted another shout of his name from his dear despot.

“Sebastian! You...unholy...yes...damn you...yes!” Lord Phantomhive panted, his breath fogging the glass to which his cheek was pressed. Whether his demon bestowed him with mind-bending pleasure or bone searing agony, Lord Phantomhive was more than satisfied. 

Sebastian was as brutal as the first moment they met, when the sight of his shadowy form seared the inconsolable child’s gaze and blood streamed from his eye, when the hollow echo of his cursed voice murmured promises intoxicatingly dark as treacle. That same voice muttered scandalous compliments into the earl’s ear now as the demon slithered up his back and pressed into him, violating the iniquitous blueblood in the most satisfying of ways, with little gentleness, the thrust so sharp and sudden it pushed Lord Phantomhive nearly to his toes before he rocked back against his devil.

“My wretched little lord,” Sebastian purred, tongue slicking out inhumanly lithe to slither up Lord Phantomhive’s neck, prompting another groan from the noble who had no choice but to accept another harsh thrust from the demon. 

“My only master,” he nearly cooed, ebony tipped grip unwinding from the noble’s wrists and leading his hands to press against the widow, their blasphemous contracts marks glowing violet together in the lowering gloom as dusk settled.

”Ciel,” Sebastian murmured when the earl’s fingers twined in his, gripping tight enough to cause bones to creak. 

“...’Bastian,” the Earl of Phantomhive husked at the whispered pricks of razored feathers drifting against over his skin. The dark noble’s head canted back to rest on an ebony shoulder, the dancing black of his demon butler in his periphery as hellfire glimmered in the window’s reflection, painting over the wraithlike paleness of his tyrant’s bared form. 

“Beautiful...blasphemous...,” the devil praised, the pleasure he took from his master hardly resided in his body, delectable thought it may be to ravage and be ravaged by it. 

No, the ecstasy that was Sebastian’s bread and wine lay in this soul that wallowed and thrived in the dark, whilst searing the shadow of the demon with its own ominous incandescence. It called out to Sebastian, snared him, and dragged him in. Drowned him in indolence and decadence. Tempted his endlessly and yet nearly sated his hunger as it danced fleetingly on his tongue when he craned his neck to drag an unholy kiss from the swaying earl, drinking in the heady liqueur that was his lord.

Their knees went to water when the demon wavered at generous draughts of Phantomhive blood on his tongue, and they sunk to the French Savonnerie rug. The noble turned to straddle the demon, fingers brushing through the drifting fall of feathers to land on devil’s chest. The smoky tendrils of the demonic form slipped away to leave the pale, perfected form of Sebastian gazing at Lord Phantomhive with a sinisterly rapturous expression as the noble impaled himself once more.

The earl’s regal head dipped down as he plundered the depths of the demon’s mouth, the sheet of his cobalt hair trailing over the butler’s skin. “Savor me, Sebastian...I am your last,” he vowed between one moan and the next.

“Yes, my lord,” the demon replied with such devotion the occupants of the Holy See would writhe in envy, and obsidian fingers spidered over his lord’s thighs, admiring the flex and bunch of the muscle there as his wanton ruler rode him with as much skill as he ever used to command his fine Arabians. Sebastian’s thumbs journeyed in to slide along the sharp V-crease of Lord Phantomhive’s hips, followed by the honed press of nails to raise welts, tracing out in broken blood vessels the shape of Sebastian's passion. 

The demon carved out sonnets of torment on his master’s form with each drag of his ferocious hands, his savage mouth when he surged up to bite his chest. He scored the depth of his need for this horrid human into Lord Phantomhive’s back when he clutched at him for a particularly wicked grind that had the demon muttering in a rare tongue not heard for millenia. 

The Earl of Phantomhive returned the sentiment and penned the poetry of anguish into Sebastian’s body, his expression enamoured and wild as he whisked his new heinous blade from the floor and flicked it expertly along the devil’s chest, delicately flaying him until no solvent could ever hope to salvage the rug beneath them, nor sane words return the devil to rationality for hours yet.

That Lord Phantomhive’s first wielding of the inhuman instrument was to sculpt Sebastian into his newest masterpiece excited the devil more than anything else this day. His ardor spilled in a rush, filling his wicked master and prompting the earl to shout the devil’s true name to the ceiling, to the heavens, as though daring God and his cursed angels to witness and be revolted.

But the master of the house was not done with his invaluable servant just yet, as exemplified when moved off him to ruck the demon’s legs over his hips and stood, muscles strengthened by years of sinisterly stalking enemies of the empire. The demon’s back hit the silk wallpaper with a thump as Lord Phantomhive roughly penetrated him with a hiss, followed by a dark laugh.

“I find myself...quite invigorated...Sebastian,” he huffed with a malicious smirk before darting his mouth out to stopper any blithe commentary from the demon in response, hips working like a locomotive’s piston, driving into his manservant’s fine form until the devil practically mewled into his mouth and locked ankles to the small of his back.

Perhaps it was the heady rush of achievement that prompted the earl to such frenzy that he took the demon again with equal force, cramming his face into the mattress until the devil’s wanton keens suffocated in the plush down. Or the scythe granted its owner something like a tonic for the lassitude that typically overcame humans after such vigorous exertion, so that the earl once more shoved the demon down and hooked Sebastian’s flawless long thighs over each elbow, bending his demonic domestic nearly in half as he speared into him once more.

The devil’s fingers laced together behind Lord Phantomhive’s neck as he hung from his master’s form, content to go nearly lax from satiation and let the earl use his body however he wished, so long as he fixed his mutilated gaze on the demon and his attention remained as constant as the North Star, inveterate as gravity.

“Ciel,” Sebastian slurred, tongue thick from bites and long sucks that drew him in, their tongues twinning and slipping, darting, withdrawing so a moan was wrenched from the demon at the retreat, an inebriating pantomime of the way his master’s thick length filled him again, again, still again. The name still felt foreign on the demon’s tongue, as novel as a newly invented profanity, and he thought perhaps he did not prefer it after all.

“Master...master…” he breathed with each dizzying rock of his lord into him, thick and heated. Yes, this was best, this was who Lord Phantomhive was, whom Sebastian desired him to be, needed him to be. 

His fingers carded into his lord’s sweaty hair, tangling and stroking, pulling in a vain attempt to bring him closer, as though there were any possible distance not breached, any conceivable piece of Sebastian that was not already filled to the brim with the Earl of Phantomhive, any aspect of him that was not inextricably bound up in this malevolent, magnificent child.

When Lord Phantomhive reached his peak his eyes widened and locked onto the devil’s visage as he grimaced, the pleasure that seared through him burning so hot it transformed into something near pain with the way his head pounded at the sudden rush of blood returning to it, his limbs locked near rigor, his every nerve ending dissected, exposed, plucked violently and expertly by his demon.

Lord Phantomhive’s fine form slumped over his Sebastian, allowing the black butler’s legs to lower from his hips and snake down to twin sinuously with the noble’s. His mouth hovered over the demon’s as blood from his split lip baptized Sebastian once more, their faces lit by the blaze of violet from their contract marks sparking to life again, as though a new covenant was forged in the hush between one ragged breath and the next. 

Rather than roll to the side or prompt the demon to tend to his duties and clear the ruined sheets, the Earl of Phantomhive relaxed and allowed the full of his weight to rest on the demon, his cheek pressed to the pillow beside the devil’s face.

The earl was not the only one feeling daring that day, so Sebastian fanned his fingers out to draw them up his tyrant’s back, then down, idly drawing nonsensical sigils in the sweat and blood starting to dry there. It was quiet for some time yet, and Sebastian would have thought his master slept were he not so attuned to the pattern of his breathing to know he was still awake.

After some time Lord Phantomhive’s face turned in the demon’s direction. Slowly his arm moved to plant his elbow on the mattress by Sebastian’s face, and a hand cupped under the Earl of Phantomhive’s chin as he looked down at his demon with an expression the devil did not recognize.

“You never lied. You’ve never lied to me.” This was said in an equally unfathomable tone, exotic in color, foreign as the Orient. “You see what I am. You have always seen me...what am I, ‘Bastian?”

The black butler’s carmine eyes widened at the unexpected inquiry. 

What was Ciel, Earl of Phantomhive? 

He was so many things. 

He was everything to the demon.

And yet he desired for the devil to define him as well.

Jet touched fingers feathered up to curl along that pale cheek, as flawless as his many marble statues, yet more alive, more vibrant than any artist’s shallow fancy. 

Keen nails scored Lord Phantomhive’s flesh tenderly and traced a line that beaded garnet to match the devil's gaze. 

That was the touch of a demon, the touch the noble desired above any other. It was the leisurely death of a thousand incremental cuts Sebastian would lavish upon him over the next decade, the next hundred decades, in their dreamy drift into the pit, the two of them floating on a bloody tide. 

They would sink together, drown one another, and be each other’s final torment. 

Sebastian did not think he had ever been happier.

“My lord, you are proof that I live.”


End file.
